


the way you turn the world around

by AnnaofAza



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Canon-Typical Violence, Civilian Eggsy Unwin, Domestic Violence, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2018-12-29 18:35:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12090957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: After dropping out of the Marines, Eggsy meets someone. He knows his mum and soon-to-be little sibling need him, that he needs to find a job, that he needs to dodge Dean's suspicions and blows, but for now, he's got Harry Hart.If only that were enough.





	the way you turn the world around

**Author's Note:**

  * For [missbecky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbecky/gifts).



> The title comes from Ingrid Michaelson’s “Parachute.” 
> 
> Thanks to those who encouraged me and talked me through tangles of detailed worries and speculations. This fic really challenged me, so I do hope it came out all right in the end. 
> 
> To my giftee: I really let this prompt get away from me, and I do hope you like it! <3

When Eggsy steps into the flat, his mum is there to greet him.

Her hair is longer, roots fading back to brunette. She’s wearing an old cardigan and loose-fitting jeans, along with wool-lined boots. Dean had given them to her for a birthday years ago, bragging about the expense and brand name, but Eggsy knew that these were another of the counterfeit goods that Dean and his mutts circulated around the estates.

Eggsy hugs his mum carefully, even though she’s not showing yet, and he’s sure he can’t damage anything with just a squeeze around the waist. Really, Eggsy knows fuck all about babies; he’d watched over some of the kids around the estate, but that was only for a few hours at most, and they usually knew how to use the toilet and feed themselves. He did some research on the bus back, turning off the precious mobile data when he started really reading an article.

Babies are fragile, delicate, susceptible to every living thing under the sun (yet fairly durable, but it varied from site to site), unable to just come out and tell you what they need, pretty fucking expensive. And most of all, babies need care around the clock, twenty-four-seven.

He hasn’t really thought of having a sibling before. He tries not to think about how he’s only slightly younger than when his mum got pregnant with him, how disappointed and disapproving his commander looked when he signed off on the official discharge, how he’s trapped as much as his mum by such a small thing.     

“Eggsy,” she now says, gaze drawn to his shorn hair, the bags he’s dropped by the door, and her eyes begin to water. “Oh, Eggsy. Shit, babe, you shouldn’t have—”

“Mum, it’s already done,” Eggsy says firmly. “I’m here for you.”

He picks up his bags again, then takes a look around the flat. Nothing much has changed—beer bottles are clustered on the counter, dirty dishes are piled in the sink, and the smell of cigarettes permeates the room despite the opened window above the sink. There’s empty takeaway counters on the table, as well as in the nearly-overflowing rubbish bin. And from what he can see, every door is open, and he can bet Dean’s gone through his stuff while he was gone.

“Mum,” he begins, ready to ask about the state of his room when, too soon, the sound of a key turning in the lock, sharp and quick, through the flat. Both of them tense, then tense more when there’s a sharp rap on the door, then a few more thuds, punctuated with frustrated grunts.

“Fucking door,” Dean mutters, slamming it behind him. “Why isn’t it fucking fixed, Michelle, I—” He then pauses, a smirk spreading across his face when he takes in Eggsy, still holding onto his duffels with clenched fists. “Mugsy,” he sneers, “back again so soon?”

Eggsy doesn’t respond, but Dean only chuckles, crossing the flat to open the fridge. Both Eggsy and his mum turn their heads, tracking his movements, as Dean pushes aside a half loaf of bread to get a beer from the middle shelf.

“Couldn't cut it, is that right?” Dean asks, straightening up and shutting the door with his foot. “Expected you to be a failure, though you did manage to fool them for a while, didn't you?”

“Dean,” his mum says softly, “I’m happy to have Eggsy back.”

“Well, if he’s back, he’s going to have to work off his keep,” Dean says, snatching a bottle opener laying on the counter. With a careless flick, he sends the lid clattering to the floor, then takes a sip. “For starters, Mugsy, it won’t hurt you to pick that up.”

Seething with humiliation and anger, Eggsy slowly puts down his bags again and walks over to where the lid’s shining on the grubby tiles. Bending his knees, he quickly scoops it up and straightens back up, tossing it into the bin near the back door. White-hot hate curls in his chest and stomach when Eggsy looks at Dean, smirking as he takes another swig of his beer.

Dean carelessly thumbs at the hallway. “Poodle moved in. May have to move some things.” He then walks over to Eggsy’s mum and rubs her arm, Eggsy turning away in disgust, picking up his stuff and heading for his room, hoping no one had removed the lock. “In the meantime, why don’t you order some takeaway, Michelle? I’m fucking starved.”

* * *

 Without the Marines, Eggsy has to get a job, and it’s not easy.

He first tries the Black Prince, hoping that his frequent patronage there will at least get him an interview, but the bartender shakes his head. When pressed, he mutters something about Dean and that’s enough of an answer for Eggsy, turning on his heel and walking out the door into the cool London air.  

Over the next few days, Eggsy wracks his brain, trying to remember what the career counselor and teachers and the more ambitious students had said, but none of them really stuck out. They were either about university—something Eggsy didn’t bother to consider—or just simple _oh, well, you’ll be working, yes?_ without an exact way to really look for a job. There was some counselor who half-heartedly went over resumes, so Eggsy goes and Googles them.

On his phone, he combs through blogs, Yahoo answers, tutorials. He manages to slip into a library to use one of the computers, going by the templates and his gathered info to create a semblance of a resume, even setting up a “professional” e-mail account with his legal name.

He can’t say he doesn’t try. Every day is sending in applications online, attaching his poor excuse for a resume like a desperate flag. He’s got no A-levels, no GSCEs, no volunteer hours, no recommendation letters, no previous jobs. He’s at least got his secondary education, but his grades are so piss-poor that they belong in a public restroom.

Predictably, no one rings him back, and if they do, they begin with the words _Thank you for applying_ and end with _We hope you find an opportunity in the near future_. It’s somehow worse when the messages have got exclamation points, like they’re enthusiastically mocking him for his failure. 

Tesco’s and Asda’s and Nando’s and Maccy D’s—stocking, flipping burgers, customer service—department stores, fast food places, gas stations, something. He reads somewhere to go to places in person, clean up a bit and wear some nice clothes, but one glance at his closet tells him he’s got nothing like that.

In the meantime—and he’s not proud of it—he steals. Wallets from passer-by in pressed suits and briefcases, some change from vending machines, food that doesn’t come in a package from grocery stores. Some of the money goes for prenatal vitamins and nicotine gum for his mum, but some are slipped in the nooks and crannies of his room—under the mattress, behind or between DVD or video game covers, pockets of old jackets.

The only people he doesn’t take anything from are Dean and his mates; they’d notice if a single pound went missing and be on him like dogs on a scent, especially since Dean keeps bringing up Eggsy’s name for their “local business.”

He ain’t proud of what he’s done; he doesn’t want to go back to that nervous kid who ran numbers and weed and shit. He wants to leave that behind—the paranoia, the skyrocketing heart rate, the searching looks—but Dean isn’t going to let him.

They’re on the edge of a line, and it takes everything in Eggsy not to be pulled across it.

* * *

When Eggsy comes home from another unsuccessful job search, roaming from shop to shop with a Help Wanted sign on their front windows, he slams the door behind him. His feet ache, the sun was blazing hot, and no one offered him anything, except some sympathetic girl his age who slipped him some water. Sweat’s dripping from his forehead, sliding down his back and legs, and he’s sure he smells rank.

“Oi,” Dean snaps from the couch, voice slightly ragged from sleep. “Keep it fucking down.”

Eggsy doesn’t answer, instead slipping the key to the flat into his trouser pocket and heading for the fridge for something cool to drink.

“You better be getting started with dinner,” Dean says, still not moving from his seat. His eyes flicker back to the football game going on. “Where the fuck have you been, anyway?”

“Out,” Eggsy says, closing fingers around the handle and yanking.

“Any idea where your mum is?”

“No,” Eggsy lies. There’s no way in hell he’s telling Dean that she’s at the doctor's today. She had to get up early and take the tube, but at least she was out of the house for the time being and had someone who knew what they were doing looking after her for a bit.  

“Well, I was expecting some food when I got back,” Dean says sullenly, then leers. “Some company, too.”

Disgusted but knowing better than to show it, Eggsy rifles through half of loaf of white bread, a half-hunk of cheese, a small tub of butter, and a few containers of yogurt. He plucks a water bottle out and opens it, taking a long drink. Fuck, he needed that.

“Oi, bring me something to drink,” Dean says.

He’s hot, exhausted, and weary, so the words that come out don’t surprise him: “Get it yourself.”

“You’re over there already. Get me a fucking drink.”

“We don’t have any more beer,” Eggsy snaps, slamming the fridge shut. “Your dogs must have gotten into them again.”

“Shit, get me a glass of water or something then. Use your ‘ead.”

Before Eggsy can say something he’d probably regret, the door opens. Dean’s head snaps around, and his face settles into a scowl. “Michelle?” he grunts. “You’re late.”

“Sorry, Dean, the bus ran a bit late,” she says, then holds up two bags of groceries. Eggsy quickly hurries to take them from her arms, setting them down on top of Dean’s magazines on the kitchen table. “Had to pick up some food.”

His mum dutifully kisses Dean, and Eggsy looks away, turning his attention to unpacking the groceries—frozen TV dinners, some potatoes, Rizlas, a loaf of bread, dried ramen, beer, a few precious fresh vegs for a Sunday breakfast. His mum smiles at Eggsy as he lifts a box of pasta from a bag. “You look hot, babe, you’ve been running around?”

“Kind of,” Eggsy says.

“Not a good idea in this heat,” she says, “but I heard there’ll be some rain.”

“We need it,” Eggsy replies, then hesitates. He wants to ask her how she is, how the appointment went, but not in front of Dean. The secret hangs heavily between them, a sword above their necks.

“We do,” she says, wiping her forehead and coming over to help him. Her hands push back the yogurt cartons into the back, then pulls the cheese forward and looks at it closely. “Think the grater’s clean, love?”

“Think so,” Eggsy says, opening one of the drawers and checking. “Yeah.”

“All right,” she says, then puts it on the counter, pulling out a few of the frozen dinners and stacking them in her arms. Eggsy reads chicken alfredo and spag bol and burritos and tikka masala, stuff with hopefully a lot of protein, and opens the freezer door for her.

“Which one do you want, Mum?” Eggsy asks. If he can ignore Dean, it can almost feel like the times they were together, just the two of them, deciding on what to do for dinner and watching some show or the news on the couch. Sometimes, they’d turn off the lights and watch an old movie, maybe sing along to a musical.

 “Not tonight, love,” his mum says. “I’m going to make something nice for a change.” She lifts out some marinara sauce in a jar, then nods to some of the vegetables. “We can chop those up and mix ‘em in.”

“Will it take long?” Dean calls from the couch, and Eggsy sighs.  

“It won’t take long,” his mum promises. “Ain’t you getting tired of all that frozen stuff?”

“It’s all right,” Dean says sullenly. “You’re not going to ask for money again, are you? How much did you get from the store?”

“There were some sales,” his mum begins, and Dean, without looking, puts a hand out.

“Hand over what you have left, then.”

His mum clearly hesitates, and Dean turns around, eyes narrowing. “Michelle?”

“Yes,” she says, then walks forward and digs some crumbled bills out of her pocket, as well as some coins. “Here.”

Dean looks at the amount in his hand, unsatisfied. “You sure that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“You ain’t holding back on me, are you?” Dean sets the change down on the coffee table and stands up. Eggsy tenses, closing the fridge and slowly beginning to edge towards them. “I give you everything you need, don't I?”

“Yes, Dean, of course, love,” she says, as his hand briefly stick into the one of the pockets of her jeans and rifles around. Her spine’s perfectly straight, eyes looking ahead, hands at her sides.

 “Leave her the fuck alone,” Eggsy snaps, effectively drawing Dean’s attention away from his mum. “It’s not her fault you can’t give her anything because of your shit job.”

That does it. Dean stalks towards him, easily shaking off his mum's grip on his arm. Eggsy stands his ground, fists clenched.

"What did you say?"

Eggsy only looks at him, this replacement his mum found. All his mum's stories about how loving and caring his father was—and he gets fucking Dean Baker, the complete opposite and an utter wankstain of a human being.

Dean seems to sense the disgust, flaying out and trying to grab Eggsy, who steps back. “What did you say, Mugsy?”

“Dean,” his mum tries, but Dean doesn’t listen. His only target is Eggsy.

Eggsy lifts up his chin and stares directly at Dean. The white-hot rage is squeezing, ready to come out. “I said that it’s not her fault you can’t support anyone.”

“I don’t see you moving your arse around here,” Dean says. “If you have time to fuck about with your mates, you have time to start selling your arse or my drugs.”  

“No,” Eggsy says firmly, but Dean only laughs in his face. They’re close now, so close that Eggsy can smell the stink of cigarettes and cheap cologne, and it takes almost everything in him not to give in, to step back.

 “You think you’re better than me?” Dean demands. “ _You?”_

The answer comes unbidden from his mouth: “Yeah.”  

A punch comes so quickly that Eggsy’s stumbling back before he realizes it, clutching at his stomach. He hears his mum shout and her sharp gasp when Dean shoves her aside again, heading for Eggsy with an intense focus in his eyes.

“Don’t act so high and mighty when you’ve been thrown out of your army jaunt.” Dean snarls, jabbing a finger at Eggsy. “You sold when you were in secondary, earlier, even—”

“I never wanted to—”

“Don’t go playing innocent, you fucking piece of shit.” Dean actually sounds furious underneath the mocking, and Eggsy watches him, wondering if he’s stepped off the precipice before he knew what he was getting into. “You’re no better than me. Nearly a fucking secondary dropout, drug runner, shoplifter—”

“And I was a kid back then!” Eggsy shouts back. “What’s more pathetic: a sixteen-year-old doing those things or someone twice his age who oughta know better—and ain’t any good at it?”

With a yell of rage, Dean backhands him so hard that Eggsy drops to the floor, head cracking on the counter as he goes down. Pain shoots through his skull, and he touches the throbbing spot before checking—no blood—but it fucking _hurts_.

“Dean!” his mum screams. “Dean, stop!” She tries to clutch at his arms, pull him back, but Dean easily shoves her away, sending her stumbling backwards across the floor. A foot catches him in the side as he’s scrambling back up, then another, and Eggsy fights against the instinct to curl up in a ball, cover his head, trying to just get off the tiles. His head’s ringing, he’s sure he’s going to have to stay up through the night, pressing down all over his body, checking for damage that can’t be walked off—

There’s a few seconds of where Dean’s winding up for a bigger kick when Eggsy’s able to stand up at last and scramble for the back door, his mum pleading, “Go, Eggsy, just go, please, _babe_ —" as he yanks it open and runs.

* * *

Eggsy ends up taking the tube, then changing to another, then walking along the tracks before choosing the next one. His hoodie’s pulled up over his head, and he knows that he’s getting some stares as he sits near some homeless man with his bags filled with plastic bottles. The bland announcer calls off the stops, the routes, the time as people lean forward in their seats with weary eyes, waiting for their destination to arrive.

He has to go home, he knows that, but what’s he going to do? He’s got no money, no job, no connections. His stomach’s twisted into knots from both the stress and the lack of food, bruises forming on his ribs and cheekbone.  

The face is what unsettles him. Dean, for all his threats to knock Eggsy’s teeth out, had never struck him where a mark could be visible, and his dogs followed suit. Now that he has, Eggsy feels as if a new chapter of his life has begun—a worse, darker one.

He gets off to try to escape the stale scent of sweat and spilled soda, the overspill of people coming in and out of the car, the screech of the tracks. Going up the stairs, Eggsy pushes against the crowd, heading for the exit, and breathing in the cold air once he steps out from underground.

The street’s more lit up, shops still open. He sees people strolling, some arm in arm, some clustered together, some alone. Laughter and chatter follow him as he walks past everything, past a young couple drinking something from Starbucks and a group of uni students complaining about an upcoming exam. Part of him drinks in the conversation, starved for company, but another part coils up in resentment and loneliness. He has nothing in common with these people—far from school and money and a future.

And of course, it starts to rain.  

At first, it’s nice, drizzle coming down on his exposed skin, sweaty and grimy from a day of walking up and down the streets, but soon, it turns into a steady trickle, then a downpour. He hurries, ducking underneath turrets, his hood a useless protection against the cold and damp. People are putting up their own hoods or opening umbrellas, some running for storefronts or cabs.

He should go home. He should go see if his mum’s all right, if only that. The ugly twist of resentment wells up in him again. If it was only him, he’d run, go to another city, find some job where no one knows who he is.

It dawns on him then, walking through the rain, shoulders hunched, trying not to draw attention to himself walking past all these posh places that have brightly-lit windows of things he can never afford and have been scrubbed to gleaming perfection. There’s no way out. He’d blown his chance at the Marines, a meal and money and possible university ticket rolled into one, along with being the man his dad might have been proud of, serving Queen and country. He’s barely old enough to get a drink in America and alone in this world. No friends, no family, no money.

But the medal.

Now, he closes his fingers around it, the last tie to his dad. His mum had seen him playing with it, turning it over with in his hands, and closed her fingers over his hands. _What did he say to you, Eggsy?_

 _Just asked me my name,_ Eggsy had said. Somehow, he’d known not to say the bit about taking care of his mum. He didn’t know how he could, not at seven years old, only that his mum was sad and that he could dial the number on the back of the medal and say the words, o _xfords, not brogues_ , like some magic spell.

Eggsy realizes he’s stopped walking, hand still locked around the medal, and glances to the side at the building looming over him.

It’s a tailor shop, brightly lit on the darkened street. A small gate that comes up to Eggsy’s hip winds around the display window, as if trying to keep people from pressing their noses against the polished glass. Three jackets—tan, dark brown, grey—with ties and pocket handkerchiefs are lined up in a neat row in front of a starched tartan curtain. All of the clothes look posh and clean and well-cut, the opposite of Eggsy’s own jacket, dangling almost mockingly behind the glass embossed in gold letters. _Kingsman_.

He wants to hurl something at it, smash the glass, but that won’t do him any good, will it?

Instead, Eggsy passes the door, taking a brief, curious glance. Inside is a man in a dark blue suit, folding something on one of the display tables, and just as Eggsy’s about to go on his way, he looks up.

Eggsy freezes, against all his instincts, wondering if he’ll be accused of trying to case the store or something. He can’t be arrested for just _looking_ , but knows that posh people will do anything to keep the lower end’s grubby fingers off their pristine ivory tower. Part of him is already wound up, writing a defiant speech in his head and itching for a fight—and honestly, Eggsy doubts that if he did a runner, the man would huff and puff to keep up.

The other part is just noticing the man’s expression as he approaches Eggsy. There’s no trace of anger or disgust; instead, with every step, openness and a trickling of curiosity. He’s not reaching for a mobile or an alarm system, only the door, and Eggsy stands there stupidly, rooted in place, the rain pattering down on him.

“Are you looking for something?” the man asks, not stepping out of the shop. Eggsy notices a fireplace near him and can’t help by step a little closer, trying to feel some of the heat.  

“I’m all right,” Eggsy lies. “Was just having a look.”

“You can have a better look when you’re in the shop.”

“No, thanks,” Eggsy says, already beginning to back away. “I didn’t mean nothing; I was—”

“Young man, I don’t think you had any nefarious intentions, and even if you did, I can take care of myself.” His eyes twinkle with some private joke. “Please come in. You’re soaked through, and this weather’s going to get worse.”

Hesitating, Eggsy finally steps over the threshold.

There’s a roaring fireplace on the left side with what look like army uniforms in a glass cabinet. The walls are dark green with some sort of etched, elaborate pattern. On the ceiling is a chandelier, and on the walls are deer’s heads, glassy eyes staring straight ahead at the folded items on the long tables and the polished shelves. The red carpet looks Persian, the kind that’s always rolled open in hotel lobbies and wealthy manors of the soap his mum likes to watch.

“My name is Harry Hart,” the stranger says, voice as calm as if they were taking tea together. His hand comes up, Eggsy trying not to flinch, but the man—Harry—only stretches out in front of him.

“Eggsy,” he mutters back, quickly shaking it. The palm is warm with some callouses, though soft enough to be upper class hands. He shoves his own hands into his pockets, hyper-aware of the grime underneath his nails, the scars across his knuckles, the too-dry skin.

If Harry notices or is disgusted by them, he doesn’t give anything away. “Welcome to Kingsman, Eggsy,” he says pleasantly, as if Eggsy’s another customer. “How about a change of clothes?”

“Thanks, but I can’t afford nothin’,” Eggsy says bluntly, purposefully making his accent stronger, relishing the clipped syllables and dropped consonants. He thinks of _My Fair Lady_ then, the enunciated _ha-ha-ha_ s huffing against a piece of paper, and gives Harry a second look. He definitely won’t need Henry Higgins’s elocution lessons.

“Don’t worry about it,” Harry says, already walking towards one of the shelves.

“I don’t accept charity,” Eggsy says sullenly, as Harry looks his way, then pulls out some kind of knit sweater, a dark green color.   

“It’s not charity,” Harry insists. “Only basic human decency.”

That stops Eggsy long enough for Harry to pull out a set of trousers and a clean, pressed shirt.

“There you go,” Harry says, then guides him into a fitting room. The door shuts behind him, and Eggsy whirls around, heart pounding until he sees that Harry’s left.

He approaches the trifold mirror, draping the clothes into the seat of a leather chair, and yeah, he looks pretty bad. What hair he’s grown back is plastered against his head, the hood of his jacket dangling limply down his shoulders. His clothes are dripping all over the carpet, darkened by the rainwater. There’s the faintest hint of a bruise rising on his cheekbone, too, and a small cut from one of the rings on Dean’s hands. He looks like a fucking mess, and grimly, Eggsy thinks it’s only fair that he look the part on the outside, too.

Quickly, he strips out of his wet clothes, leaving them on a heap on the floor. He tries to wipe and dab at his skin so he’s not as wet, but gives up when he realizes his damp jacket won’t do any good.

With careful hands, he picks up the bundle of clothes, lifting them in the air one by one. There are no price tags on them—whether Harry ripped them off when he wasn’t looking or if tailor shops are like those fancy restaurants with no prices on the menu—but they’re definitely lightyears beyond the frayed suit jacket of his dad’s, pushed to the back of his mum’s closet.

Harry gave him a complete outfit, looks like, and to Eggsy’s embarrassment, Harry’s even chosen a pair of pants for him. But he slips them on, then the trousers, the white button-down, and the wool sweater. They make a difference; Eggsy’s already feeling dry and comfortable and warm.

Looking in the mirror, Eggsy seems like a different person all together—someone who’s got his life together, but at another glance, the wet hair and bruised cheek won’t fool anyone who’s looking closer. He scowls at himself, looking away, and picks up his clothes.  

When he comes out, Harry’s standing by the front desk. “I was just making some tea when you came in,” he says, although Eggsy knows the electric kettle hadn’t been there when he first got here. “Would you care to have some?” At Eggsy’s hesitance, Harry continues, “I’m making one for myself anyway.” 

Eggsy sighs. Might as well. “Yes, thank you.”

“I also have a stash of chocolate biscuits somewhere,” Harry says. “Perfect for breaking up the monotony of the shop. And here.” He gestures to the railing that’s forming a box around the fireplace. “Here’s some place where you can hang your wet clothes.” He then walks to the couch and sits, bending over slightly to pull out some sort of hidden drawer from the table. “And if you sit down, you can have the first cup.”

Eggsy lays his clothes over the polished wood, feeling cheap, then obediently sits on the leather couch, noticing Harry’s given him the spot closest to the fireplace. Harry’s only a few inches away, calmly munching on one of the biscuits from the colorful foil package. Whatever awkwardness Eggsy feels, Harry’s not sensing it—or simply is that good at showing it. His posture seems relaxed, legs spread out calmly.

Eggsy wants to ask this stranger why he’s doing this, why he’s allowed a drowned rat of a chav to sit on a couch that looks like it can put a down payment on a small flat. Maybe he’s one of those rare posh people who actually have manners. Maybe he has a son that’s gone off to uni and Eggsy reminds him of him. Maybe he’s just mad.  

“So, you’re a tailor,” Eggsy says awkwardly.

“Yes,” Harry says. The amused look in his eyes is back on again, so subtle and quick that it’s gone within a blink.

“What’s it like?”

“Interesting in its own way.”

“So, what, it’s like…sewing and measuring and all that?”

“Don’t forget customer service,” Harry says light-heartedly, albeit with a brief tick upward of his pupils, as if he wants to roll his eyes but can’t. “It makes things…interesting.”

Eggsy finds himself smiling. “What, those posh folks give you trouble?”

“Ah, yes. Just the other day, a certain patron came in for his final fitting. He decided once he put it on that the color wasn’t right and that he needed a whole suit made by next week for a certain gala. Needless to say, it’s not feasible to complete a bespoke suit in such a short time with all of our other customers lined up and one of our best tailors out with pneumonia.”

“Wanker,” Eggsy says, immediately snapping his head towards Harry, wondering about his reaction.

Harry only smiles. “Indeed. He then threw a fit when Owen politely explained to him that it couldn’t be done, then asked after his son’s suit, only to be displeased with that as well. Had to be escorted out.”

“A mate of mine was at Tesco’s last week, and he says something like that just happened, except with some discontinued frozen pizza,” Eggsy volunteers.

“Was it worth it?”

“Well, yeah,” Eggsy says, mock empathetically. “It was a meat supreme, extra cheese. Doesn’t taste like it’s a cardboard box with some shit on top of it.”

“A pity, then,” Harry says, but it’s kind of hard to tell if he’s joking or not. “I often work late, you see, and the best pizza places around here close early in the evening.”

“That sucks,” Eggsy says.

“It does,” Harry agrees. “A pity there really isn’t anything open. I could use a bite.”

The glance he gives Eggsy doesn’t go unnoticed. “Not hungry,” he lies.

“I am,” Harry says, then stands up, walking towards the phone on the front desk. “I think there’s a small Thai restaurant that’s still open. I remember getting some during New Year’s Eve.”

Eggsy sits there as Harry orders too much food for one person, knowing exactly what’s happening. A hundred excuses and protests are on his lips, ready to burst out, only to be silenced when Harry comes back, bearing two cups of steaming hot tea.

“I’m afraid we only have chamomile at the moment,” Harry says, setting them down in front of them. “Careful, they’re hot.” He then takes another chocolate biscuit, chewing for a while before asking—after swallowing, of course—“Would you like one?”

With a blank stare, Eggsy takes one, but doesn’t eat it. 

 Harry says nothing. Instead, he picks up his tea and takes a cautious sip.

Eggsy’s tempted to pull out his phone, but doesn’t want to seem rude. He also thinks about just standing up and going, but his clothes aren’t even close to being dry, and he’s got a chocolate biscuit still in his hand and a steaming cuppa in front of him.

And anyways, he doesn’t really want to go home, either.

“So,” Eggsy says. The least he can do is try to have some sort of conversation. “Have any other customer service stories?”

Harry smiles, taking another sip of tea before beginning, “ _Well_ , there was yesterday—”

Eggsy listens in disbelief as Harry details the long, awkward encounter of some snotty prick who bitched about having to pay for a jacket after he spilled some of his coffee on it, then almost immediately moves to another incident where his boss’s godson made some rude comment to a lady who wanted a fitted suit for her graduation. He shakes his head at how entitled some of Harry’s customers are, how they’d throw fits about such small things like mismatched ties but also have no problem dropping thousands of pounds on a suit.

“I don’t want to give you the impression that it’s always like this,” Harry says, after the sixth story and after Eggsy’s third biscuit. “It’s generally rather quiet.”

“Dull?” Eggsy ventures. He looks around the shop again. Everything is in its place, no chaos or disorder in sight, and he imagines it’s bustling but quiet, as Harry said, with a few salespeople hanging around or showing customers some handkerchief patterns or something.

“Some parts of it,” Harry admits. “But it’s…calming some days, and I usually do like helping customers find what they want.”

“You must be good at that,” Eggsy says politely, but he genuinely means it. His own borrowed clothes fit perfectly, and even though he’s never thought of himself as a wool sweater and fitted trousers kind of guy, they are comfortable and did seem to look nice when he glanced in the mirror.

“Well,” Harry says modestly, “I do try.”

Before Eggsy can reply, there’s a hesitant knock on the glass door.

“Looks like the food is here,” Harry comments, then stands up.

Eggsy hears the brief, muffled sound of conversation, then a polite thank you from Harry as he’s pushing against the door with a shoulder. Jumping up from his place, Eggsy holds the door open as Harry comes through, arms ladled with plastic bags filled with cartons.

“Thank you, Eggsy,” Harry says, then sets the items down and begins unpacking them right on the coffee table. There’s a clatter of plastic utensils being upended, along with the silent flutter of napkins, as well as a few sauce packets. Eggsy helps Harry unpack, trying not to let his stomach growl at the appetizing smell of pad thai and egg-fried rice, but when Harry sets down the last container, an embarrassingly loud gurgle bursts into the room.

Thankfully, Harry ignores it in favor of opening a white carton filled with curry, then politely excuses himself. Eggsy looks longingly at the food, wondering how long he can last until he digs a fork into one of the dishes.

He doesn’t have to wait that long; Harry comes back, bearing two plates with what look like hand-painted flowers on the sides. Eggsy takes one, knowing deep in his bones that this is fucking expensive, but Harry casually spoons out a portion of curry onto his as if it’s some paper plate from Asda.

Shrugging, Eggsy joins him, and together, they sit on the couch, china with Thai takeaway balanced on their knees, and eating from plastic forks. Rain’s still coming down outside, the fire still crackling, and the tea and food go a long way to warming Eggsy up. Every bite is delicious, and even though eating off of white porcelain with delicate blue-and-purple flowers and gold swirls is kind of weird, it’s also kind of cool.

They don’t really talk, but it’s not awkward anymore. It’s just quiet and comfortable, with only “can you pass some of that to me?” and “would you like the last of this one?” interrupting.

Eggsy’s just beginning to feel full when the sound of rain pattering against the window stops, and he turns his head. By the door, he sees the shop’s hours detailed in the same gold letters as Kingsman, then swivels his head to check the clock above the mantle. A good hour and a half’s passed after closing time.

Shit.

“Thank you,” Eggsy says, breaking the silence, “but I got to get home.” He stands up, lightly touching the shirt hanging on the rack.

“Your clothes are still a bit damp,” Harry says. “Why don’t you wear the ones you have on home?”

“No,” Eggsy says, slinging his clothes over his right arm. “But I can’t keep these.” He wonders if there’s some sort of health violation, this shop selling off clothes someone else has already worn, and winces, knowing there’s sweat and dust and rainwater on the inside of this pristine shirt.

“They’re yours,” Harry says, then more firmly: “I’ve already checked them out of the inventory.”

Eggsy relents at the stubborn look in Harry’s eyes. “Fine,” he agrees, then looks at the clock. “I’ve got to get home.” 

“Let me a call a cab for you,” Harry offers. “It’s still wet out there.”

“No,” Eggsy says quickly. Harry’s done enough for him already. “No thanks, I can just take the Underground.”

There’s a moment where Eggsy’s afraid Harry will argue, but the other man only nods. “Very well, then. I hope you have a safe trip. Do you want to take the leftovers with you?”

“I’m good,” Eggsy says, though he’s really tempted to. He heads for the door before Harry can persuade him about this thing, too. “Thank you, Harry.”

Harry smiles at him. “You’re welcome, Eggsy.”

The warmth in his eyes makes blood flush to Eggsy’s cheeks, and Eggsy mutters a quick _bye_ and scurries out the door.

* * *

 During the next few days, Eggsy tries to think of how he can repay this stranger.

 He can’t afford so much as a pocket handkerchief, so there’s no use patronizing the stop. He thinks about contacting the store and putting in a good word for Harry, but decides not to, especially since Harry essentially gave him ridiculously expensive clothes—he’d winced at the cost when he’d looked them up on Kingsman’s website—for free. He can email or call Harry, but Kingsman doesn’t seem to give out their employees’ contact info, and Google turns up nothing.

 So, in-person will be the way to go. Eggsy decides to wait to go to the shop until next week at the same time, hoping that Harry works regular hours.

Turns out, he doesn’t. An elderly man greets him instead, and Eggsy has to fumble with an apology and come up with some excuse on why he wants to see Harry. It’s only natural to the tailor that Eggsy’s come in to request a fitting, and Eggsy can’t bring himself to correct him. ‘Sides, it’s as good as an excuse as any.

“When are you available, sir?” the tailor asks, and squirming at the thought of actually having to come back and pretend for a bit about purchasing a three-piece suit he can’t afford, Eggsy rattles off a few times, then his phone number, watching the tailor neatly copy it into a small, black ledger.

When it’s all settled, Eggsy confirms his availability, thanks the tailor, and books it as soon as he can.

* * *

It doesn’t take long for the shop to contact him, only the next day around two o’clock, and to Eggsy’s surprise, it’s Harry who’s on the other end, pleasantly apologizing for not being there that evening.

“I do apologize; my hours are rather erratic,” Harry says easily, as Eggsy paces in his room, jerking his head towards his closed bedroom door for the sound of the key turning in the lock. He’s been lucky to avoid Dean so far—he and his mates are down at the Black Prince—but knows there’s going to be hell to pay once his stepdad comes back. “I believe the closest convenient time is tomorrow at noon.”

“That’ll work,” Eggsy agrees. Too late, he realizes that he can tell Harry thanks and leave it at that, but he can’t back out now without seeming like an idiot. “Uh, noon tomorrow it is.”

“Excellent.” Harry actually seems genuinely pleased. “Take care, Eggsy. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Eggsy says, just as Harry hangs up. “See you.”

* * *

Eggsy does his best. There’s not much he can do with his close-cropped hair, but he makes sure to shower and have a shave, dressing in a pair of jeans that don’t sag or have a hole somewhere, along with a polo and jacket that haven’t been tossed on the floor or over a chair. He thinks about wearing the clothes Harry had given him, but by the time he’s thought about it, he’s on the tube and it’s too late to go back.

By some stroke of luck, some lady leaves a small, pink box behind on the train, and after Eggsy’s jumped off and tried to flag her down with no success, he lifts the lid, revealing a ton of small pastries—cannolis and biscuits and tiny cakes.

Sure, he kind of feels guilty about it, but at least he has something to give to Harry. Eggsy sets the box down on his lap on the next train, checking the red numbers flashing above him and praying he won’t be late.

When the doors open, Eggsy shoves past the crowds, careful not to jostle his prize, and heads up the stairs, hoping he remembers where Kingsman is. He walks past storefronts that look familiar, turning and craning his neck to make sure he’s heading the right way, until finally, his feet stop in front of the tailor shop.

Harry’s waiting there, resting against an umbrella like a cane, and he turns away from chatting with the same old man Eggsy talked to the other night to smile at him. “Hello, Eggsy.”

“Hey, I just…I wanted to thank you for what you did, so—" Eggsy thrusts the box at Harry. "Here." 

Harry takes it and opens it, and Eggsy tries not to preen when a satisfied smile spreads across Harry’s face. "Thank you very much.” Then, “As a matter of fact, it's my break. Would you care to share this with me?”

Eggsy looks around the shop, eyes settling on the leather couch, the coffee table now crowded with fabric samples and fashion mags. “Here?”

Strangely, Harry seems to stare fixedly at the ceiling as he replies, “No, somewhere else. I know a cafe down the street.”

* * *

Harry ends up buying them both coffees in order for them to sit at a booth, and they share the contents of the box together, wiping sticky fingers onto napkins. Outside, people are going to work or simply taking a stroll, and in here, it looks like others are taking their lunch break like Harry is. 

No one glances at the two of them, even though Eggsy’s sure they make an odd pair—posh and pleb, sitting at the same table with a package full of pastries between them. Even so, Eggsy feels like he’s sticking out like a sore thumb in his Adidas polo and winged trainers, his hat pulled low over his head. He’s hyper-aware of where he is and what he’s doing, sharing dessert with a still-virtual stranger in a posh neighborhood.

And maybe this is the best place. He could have taken Harry to some fish and chips stand near his flat, or even the Black Prince, but there’s no way he could get away with that. Gossip travels fast, and he’s not willing to answer all the questions, all the speculation about him with a bloke in a fitted suit, especially if it came from Dean. 

 _Don’t think about him now,_ Eggsy thinks, then watches Harry finish the last of a cannoli, dabbing almost delicately at his mouth with the napkin. Something about that makes Eggsy smile, then immediately look down at his unfinished cream puff when Harry’s gaze swivels towards him.

“Would you care to share some lunch with me?” Harry asks, then gives a rueful look at the almost-empty box. “Even if it is out of order, dessert before real food.”

Eggsy shakes his head. He doesn’t have much to spare, and the pastries go a bit of a way filling his stomach. “No, thanks.”

The lines around Harry’s mouth tighten before turning up into what appears to be a polite, if insincere smile. “Ah, that’s all right, then.” He clears his throat before sliding his legs outside of the booth, grabbing his umbrella. Eggsy watches, a bit startled, as Harry stands up and clasps both hands on top of the handle of his umbrella. “Thank you for the pastries, Eggsy.”

And suddenly, he sees what this is: “No! No, I mean, you can have some lunch with me if you want. I’m just…I’m not hungry.”

Harry pauses, foot already pointed towards the exit.

Eggsy presses on: “I mean it. I mean, lunch break without lunch? Kinda defeats the purpose of it, yeah?”

To his relief—and surprise at the big sense of relief—Harry sits back down, then flags down a waitress and asks for special number sixteen, along with some tea. Eggsy glances at the menu leaning on its rack next to the salt and pepper, spotting a picture of what Harry just ordered—caramelized onions and chunks of beef in brown broth, with melted cheese on top, along with some panini with cheese, tomatoes, and thin slices of bacon.

When the waitress turns to Eggsy, pen poised above her paper, Harry says, “The same thing, please.”

Before Eggsy can say anything, the waitress nods and whisks away to take care of another customer, and Harry looks at him a bit guiltily. “I apologize,” he says carefully. “I knew you said you weren’t hungry, but if you aren’t, they can simply box it up for you.”

“I can eat,” Eggsy says, then glances at the menu again. It’s not horrendously priced, a pretty good deal from this place, and well, he can take home the leftovers if he needs to.

“The soup is excellent,” Harry says.

“So, you come here often?” Eggsy asks, then mentally winces at the choice of phrase.

Harry doesn’t even blink. “Sometimes, yes. But often, I work through lunch.”

“Tailoring that interesting?” Eggsy asks, half-joking.

“Yes, and busy, as well,” Harry replies.

“Thought it’d go faster with those sewing machines,” Eggsy says.

Harry smiles. “Yes, it does, but we tend to sew them by hand for a more delicate and personalized touch.” He lightly touches his own suit, the same one he’d worn that night—dark navy with silver pinstripes. “Every one is different.”

“I see a lot of the same thing going on.” Eggsy takes a bite of his cream puff, chewing and swallowing before he looks up at Harry. “Y’know, black and dark blue, kind of plain, with black shoes and the same color tie.”

“That is so, sometimes,” Harry says. “But with a bespoke suit, it’s tailored to your measurements and tastes, and while there are similarities, each one has its differences. For example,” he nods to some guy, probably a businessman, texting at his table near them, “he has a bit of a flair going on. Italian cut, herringbone pattern, tie in a trinity knot. And that one—” Eggsy turns to see another man lingering by the counter to pay. “More traditional, but still standing out in a subtle way with some pinstripes, the dark red tie.”

Eggsy grins. “Is that what you do, then? The suit whisperer?”

“In a sense,” Harry says, returning his grin with a smile of his own. “I don’t often design suits, but I do enjoy it.”

“What would you design for me?” Eggsy asks, taking another bite of his pastry. He notices a bit of cream still on his fingers, quickly bringing them up to his mouth and licking them, then looks up at Harry a bit sheepishly. Probably not the best table manners he’s got.

Harry’s gaze is lingering on his face, eyes now with a bit of heat creeping in. “Something a bit untraditional. Wine-dark red, silver and zigzagging pinstripes, dark tie with silver accents, silver cufflinks and buttons…” His voice goes just a little lower, more speculative, as if he’s picturing it. “Black lapels, jacket cut above your hips.”

Eggsy’s heart is racing. He knows what’s happening—or what might, if he responds. “Yeah?” he asks casually. “Why above my hips?”

Harry opens his mouth, Eggsy just leaning forward when the waitress comes back with their food. “Can I get you two anything else?”

“No, everything is fine,” Harry says, and the waitress nods and backs away. Eggsy mentally groans at the interruption, deciding to tear into his sandwich instead. They eat mostly in silence, Eggsy’s stomach burning with the lingering intensity of Harry’s gaze, his voice.

 _This is fucking insane,_ he thinks. _Beyond fucking insane._

His attention turns back to Harry, who’s pulled out his mobile with a frown, and with a rueful glance, puts it back into his trousers pocket. 

“So,” Harry says, with a quiet wince, “it appears that I’m late to a meeting.” He slips his wallet out and places a small stack of bills on the edge of a table. “I hate to abandon you, Eggsy, but I fear for my life if I’m any later."

“That’s okay,” Eggsy says. “Work is work, y’know?” Not like he knows, but still.

“Yes,” Harry replies, then, just before he slides out of the booth, asks, “When are you free this week?”

Eggsy’s heart jolts. “Tomorrow. Afternoon, mostly."

“Can you come by the shop?”

“Yes,” Eggsy says immediately, and the conversation turns rapid-fire, Harry lingering at the table, feet turned towards the door, checking his watch with each second:

“Is the same time good?”

“Noon?”

“That’s right.”

“It should work, yeah.”

“Good. Good.” Harry hesitates, then settles on a nod and a hasty “see you tomorrow, Eggsy” before he rushes out the door.

* * *

When he comes back, Dean’s smiling his sleazy smile, holding Eggsy's mum's hand, plastic trays from frozen TV dinners on the coffee table with unwashed forks laying across them. “Guess what, Mugsy?” he sneers. “I’m going to be a father.”

His mum looks up, smiling weakly at him. “Sorry I didn’t tell you earlier, babe,” she says. Her lie is perfect, without an ounce of hesitation or dropped gaze. “Just wanted to be sure.”

Eggsy’s reminded of all the times she’s sent him away or distracted Dean with a sweet smile and whispered word in his ear. Looking at Dean, how smug and proud he seems, Eggsy feels the tiniest flicker of hope. Dean didn’t flip out and hurt his mum—or leave her, which was the best case scenario—and maybe, just _maybe,_ some kid that has Dean’s blood will be treated better than him.

Bile churns in Eggsy’s stomach before he congratulates his mum and slinks back into his room, closing the door tightly behind him.

* * *

They meet again for lunch, then another lunch.

It’s really until midway through the fourth lunch when things start veering into the personal.

Eggsy's sure that Harry didn't see it that way when he brought it up, but all the same, when Harry starts talking about going to the Globe Theatre for a friend's birthday earlier that week, Eggsy has a sinking suspicion that he's not going to be able to keep up with this conversation. Worse, he knows, Harry doesn't babble on and on; he's infuriatingly considerate, asking Eggsy's opinion on this or that. It's only a waiting game now, trying to collect all the scattered pieces of information Harry's tossing out and attempting to wrack his brain if he's seen the movie adaptation. Was it the one where the brother and sister switched places? The one based off _She's the Man_?

"...And I find it rather skeptical that Beatrice and Benedick genuinely loved each other or if it was on the part of social norms," Harry's saying, "but James disagreed. Rather a romantic, he is, and even his no-nonsense husband agreed, of all people." 

"So, you ain't a romantic?" Eggsy asks, trying to buy some time.

Harry raises his eyebrows, which seems to be the posh equivalent of a shrug. "Oh, sometimes. Just not in this context, and I can understand why people want to see the two characters in love in a comedy. Otherwise, it would be rather depressing if it turned out to be simple resignation."

"Depressing," Eggsy echoes.

"What do you think?" Harry asks, and damn him, why couldn't he just have continued on with that bloody thesis?

“I’m not really a Shakespeare person,” Eggsy finally says, though, to be honest, he doesn’t know if he would be or not. He’d skipped so much class that he was almost held back a year, and part of that is Dean’s fault for scheduling him on drug runs and the other part is his, deciding to play hooky with Jamal and Ryan instead of reading about fairies or something.

“No?” Harry asks, but there isn’t any judgment in his voice, only curiosity.

Eggsy shrugs, trying to affect the old _I'm not a fucking idiot; I just don't care_ attitude that his teachers had bemoaned. “Never really got into it much in school. Just sorta read a few sonnets and a play.”

“Which one?”

“ _Othello_ ,” Eggsy says.

"Ah, that's a good one," Harry says. "Tragic, though. But I can understand why you don't consider yourself to be a 'Shakespeare person' in school. I wasn't."

Eggsy puts down the spoon he's been using to stir his soup for the past ten minutes, surprised. "Yeah?"

"Oh, no," Harry says, "I was a terrible student. My father often despaired of me, and I went through tutors like a bachelor goes through clean laundry." He shakes his head, smiling. "It was one of my friends, Hamish, who got me interested in the history of it all. I even considered going into that field."

"But you didn't?" Eggsy asks. He wonders what could have been so appealing about becoming a tailor. Hell, even a professor seemed more exciting.

"Family business called me," Harry says simply, then picks up his cup of tea, taking a sip. "But again, I assume that you and I had similar experiences with the Bard at school."

Squirming in his seat, Eggsy crumbles the small slice of bread into his soup. “I dunno. I knew what was happening and all that shit; it was just...I don’t know, the way I was taught, it was sorta…highbrow, I guess. And my teacher had this theory that Shakespeare didn’t even write his plays, so I thought...well, what's the point, you know?"

“Nonsense,” Harry says. “That theory was just drummed up by people who don’t believe a son of a leatherworker could be so educated and write such lovely things.”

Eggsy stares. “So, it’s an elitist prick thing?”

“Yes.” Harry takes another sip of tea. “The other people who have supposedly written Shakespeare’s plays are nobles, such as the Earl of Oxford. And logically, you would think nobles would be better educated—private tutors and such. But contrary to belief, education was in the hands of their parents; if they didn’t care for their children to learn Latin or literature, they focused more on other skills instead of those.” He puts his cup down. “Shakespeare was educated in grammar school, where they spent hours rigorously drilling them in Latin and other works of classic literature.”

“So, he might have been actually more educated than people think.”

“Exactly.” Harry shrugs. “And he did take ideas from other people’s works, but many other writers were at the time, and some writers do today. Is it stealing when people adapt from the original source material to create something new? Look what people do to Greek legends: Theseus and the labyrinth, Perseus and Medusa, Pygmalion—"

" _My Fair Lady_ ," Eggsy interrupts, pleased to catch on.

Harry smiles at him. "Exactly."

Eggsy finds himself beaming back. Harry's grin isn't as wide as his, but his eyes shine with such warmth that they make up for it. There's a bit of heat of in it as well, the same kind that emerged when he was talking about making Eggsy a suit, and Eggsy doesn't have to look in a mirror to know his eyes are like that, too. The waitress comes to take their bill, but he doesn't notice until Harry's fingers slide a card to her, his long and elegant fingers with a gold ring on his pinkie.

“I know what I want,” Eggsy says recklessly once the bill's all done with. Normally, he wouldn't say such a thing out loud, but they're in a part of London where no one knows who he is and in a booth in the back, surrounded by chattering people uninterested in what's going on beyond their own table.

"So do I," Harry replies. His tone is calm, natural, and almost bored, even, but Eggsy notices how his fingers briefly twitch, as if they want to teach out across the table and take Eggsy's hand. "I'm afraid I have to finish a job, but I should be done by four tomorrow, if you're free."

Eggsy nods. "I am." 

“Tomorrow,” Harry says, sounding like a question, a last confirmation.

Eggsy nods again. “Tomorrow,” he echoes. 

* * *

It takes every ounce in him to not show a single emotion on the way home, and he succeeds miserably. He's sure he's grinning like a loon, teeth bared and eyes shining, frozen in place as he takes the tube back. People take one look at him and decide to stand rather than sit beside him, then snatch curious glances the rest of the way.

Eggsy knows better than to start really thinking about what's going to happen tomorrow, but he does pull out his phone and search for nearby hotels near the shop. He also tries to figure out what he should wear tomorrow, if he should try to dress up proper or give Harry a bit more of a show. There's a pair of jeans that make his arse look pretty good, thrown somewhere into one of the drawers, and a polo shirt where he can pop a few buttons, but he's got to wear something over it because he'll still have to go into Kingsman to see Harry.  

When he gets off the tube, Eggsy keeps pinching the inside of his wrist, trying to calm down. It's easier and easier the more he walks up his street, with the grey concrete and a few of his neighbors smoking some hash. One of them offers him a joint, and Eggsy declines, even though he's sort of tempted to, and walks up the stairs to the flat.

Inside is his mum, stirring boxed pasta and cheese in a pot, with Poodle and Dean watching some cop drama on the telly. Luckily, they don't seem to notice him, and Eggsy only has to roam his eyes across the coffee table with some beer bottles and a tray of rolled up Rizlas to figure out why.

Still, he steps carefully past them, Dean complaining when he steps in front of the telly, but doesn't get up or anything like that. His mum smiles when she sees him. "How was your day, babe?"

"Okay," Eggsy says. "Yours?"

"Just sick," she says, holding her stomach slightly. "How was the job-hunting?" 

Eggsy shrugs. He managed to stop by two shops before he got on the tube to meet Harry, but nothing bit. "Not too good," he says. 

His mum makes an noncommittal noise, then turns off the burner, not looking at him when she says, too casually, "You know, I ran into Ryan and his mum today. He was asking about you." 

Guilt drops into his stomach. "Yeah?" 

"Was surprised you were back, actually," she says, then begins ladling the pasta and cheese into bowls. It's never been her way to directly confront him about anything, only to casually mention she heard something about amph being passed around the estates this week or silently leave the pack of Rizlas he'd hidden under his mattress on his bed. 

Eggsy says nothing when she places two bowls in front of Dean and Poodle, who don't acknowledge her presence, then pulls out a glass from one of the cabinets, filling it up with tap water. He only watches as she takes a sip, then sticks a fork into her own dinner, beginning to eat it, still standing at the counter. 

"There's some for you, Eggsy," she says. "If you want." 

"Not really hungry," he mutters, slipping into his room and shutting the door. 

Sitting on the bed, Eggsy takes out his mobile, pulling up his and Ryan's messages. The last one was from Ryan months ago, a  _good luck, Eggsy!,_ with a thumbs up emoticon, and Eggsy feels a tightening in his chest before he checks the group chat. Ryan and Jamal haven't said anything in there since Eggsy left, probably creating a separate one in his absence. He wonders where they are now, if Jamal ever got that job he applied to at Asda's, if Ryan finally persuaded his mum to get a puppy, if they've carved out lives for themselves yet. Part of him wants to sit down and have a pint with them, catching up after all this time, but a larger part feels drained and hollow, not wanting to face any kind of pity or questions. 

Laying down on the bed, covers pulled over his head, Eggsy scrolls through months and years of texts, plans to go to movies and different parkour videos and funny YouTube videos. He remembers when Jamal's sister was going through her acting phase and making Jamal read lines from the different plays she was trying out for, when Ryan introduced them all to Plan B and a site where they could download the newest album, when they all got drunk on piss-poor beer during Eggsy's sixteenth. There are pictures, some a bit blurrier than others, with all of them posing with silly smiles, sometimes showing off a new parkour trick or imitating an old teacher. One of them is from two years ago, when Jamal freestyle-rapping to his now ex-girlfriend with Ryan beat-boxing, Eggsy trying to contain his laughter while filming, camera shaking. 

With a sigh, he opens a text box, typing out a  _hey,_ then stares at it. What can he even say? _Hey, just got back from the Marines. Failed on that one, but at least I'm seeing some tailor from Savile Row._

He eventually switches off his phone and rolls over. Maybe he'll figure out something, but for now, he's going to try to sleep. The sooner he gets there, the sooner it'll be tomorrow. 

* * *

Eggsy checks his email, sees no new messages, and heads out, pulling up his hood over his head. He texts his mum, telling her he might be back late, and without much to do until four, mostly wanders around London. With good reason, he's unusually jittery today, humming random songs and popping into shops, then walking back out because of all the looks he's getting from the employees. Yeah, he's opted for the slightly-tight jeans and unbuttoned polo, but it's probably the big fucking dumb grin making its appearance again. He really can't wait, can't wait until he can get his hands on Harry and help him out of that fancy-arse suit. 

They'd probably get a hotel. It might be a bit more upscale than the haunts around hid neighborhood, with dirty carpet, peeling walls, and god knows what on the sheets, but it doesn't really matter. Harry will check them both in on the desk, sign some leather-bound guestbook, pay in cash, and lead Eggsy to the elevator. They'd go up together, each standing close enough to touch, but won't in case someone else comes in. The keycard will be swiped, the door will open, and they'll slam it as fast as it does, flipping into the nearest wall and kissing, hands going for hair and cheeks and shoulders in a bit of a frenzy. 

So his legs are practically buzzing when he walks into the shop, only to start when he looks around. There's only the same older man who'd helped him get an appointment with Harry talking on the phone at the front desk, along with another guy who's slightly older than Eggsy helping out a couple choose some fabrics. 

Maybe Harry's late. But no, he already knows, even though he pretends to have a look around, waiting. Harry's not coming.

He probably got cold feet. Or maybe he had something else come up, but he couldn't contact Eggsy because they never exchanged numbers. Either way, it sucks.

And yeah, he should have expected it. He shouldn't have gotten fixed up, tried to comb his hair in a more attractive sweep, or woken up early with jittery anticipation. It's his fault to begin with, and as he makes his fourth round around the shop, gathering suspicious looks from the couple, Eggsy tries not to let the disappointment sink in so much. Whatever. He's been ghosted, stood up, jilted. It's not like it hasn't happened before.  

But it still kind of hurts, and it shouldn't. With a frustrated sigh, Eggsy makes his last circle, checks the clock near the fireplace, and pushes the door open, stepping out into the night. 

* * *

On the way home, he steals a wallet and someone's nice watch.  

* * *

The weather gets colder and colder with each month, and Eggsy takes to layering his jackets and pulling down an old knit cap over his head when he goes out. He spends more days in the pub, where he can sit there as long as he wants in a warm booth if he keeps ordering pints and chips, funded by whatever he's picked up these days. He and his mum are able to spend more time together because Dean and his mates have figured out that trick, too, and they cook some soups and stews and pastas, trying to get something hot in their stomachs.

His mum’s been growing, too, belly stretching out with each passing month. Apparently, the baby doesn’t move around too much, something that causes his mum to gnaw at her nails all day—since she can’t have a drink or a cig—and she gets a bit more snappy and over-anxious. It doesn’t help that Dean’s not really much there to rub her feet or fetch her the latest craving or hold her hand when she rushes to the toilet.

Eggsy still really doesn’t know fuck-all about babies, except that you got to breathe in a certain way when you get to the actual birth part and all sorts of horrifying facts when he Googles what to prepare for when he’s got to help his mum to the hospital. There’s ripping, contractions, blood, mucus, cutting, pushing, screaming, and all sorts of other factors that make it very easy to get down on his knees and thank whoever was out there that he never has to experience this.

“I’ve done this before, you know,” his mum says when she catches Eggsy searching the latest site about nearby Lamaze classes.

“I know,” Eggsy says, “but I just want to make sure—”

“I’ll be fine,” she reassures him, then quickly dips her finger into the tomato soup she’s been stirring for the past few minutes. It’s cheating—came in a box from Tesco’s—but no one really minds, as long as it’s something hot. “I promise.”

Eggsy only nods, strolling over to the thermostat, shivering, then reaches a hand up to turn it on.

But it’s already on, according to the dial—yet the flat is still freezing.

“Is it broken?” Eggsy asks, frowning. It ain’t the first time something’s gone down in the flat, and it won’t be the last.

“Don’t think so,” his mum says, then walks over, squinting at the thermostat. “It shouldn’t be; it was working last night. I’ll call and see what to do about it, but we’ll have to put on some extra sweaters.”

Sighing, Eggsy walks to his room. He can’t say this has never happened, but it’s still fucking annoying. Digging through his closet, he finds another jacket and pulls it on, wondering he should look for a pair of gloves.

He hears the key turn in the lock and spends a few extra minutes delaying coming out, listening to Dean’s grumbling about the cold and explaining how Poodle and Rottie will be coming by later. His mum makes small talk with him, just about the soup she made and the weather, and Eggsy feels it safe enough to step out and have some dinner.

“Would be nice,” Dean’s saying, then looks around, gritting his teeth. “Jesus, Michelle, it’s fucking freezin’ in here.”

“The thermostat’s broken, Dean,” his mum says, pouring some of the tomato soup into a bowl and handing it to him.

“It ain’t broken; what’s this—” Then, Dean pauses, considering. “What’s the date?"

“The fourteen.”

Dean snaps his fingers. “Fuck. The heat bill.”

“What do you mean the heat bill didn’t get paid?” Eggsy demands.

Dean glares at him. He’s been less of a bastard these past few months, surprisingly treating his mum a bit nicer, though he still smokes in the flat and makes the occasional disgusting comment to his dogs, but Eggsy knows better than to fall into the lull. He’d made that mistake a few times, and it’s always ended.

“I fucking forgot. I’ll call about it tomorrow.” Dean waves his hand. “You don’t pay the bills, so you don’t get a say.”

“I get a say because I _live_ here,” Eggsy snaps. “And so does Mum—at least give a shit about her.” He crosses his arms. “’Sides, it’s not like I haven’t been looking for work.”

“And you have nothin’ to show for it,” Dean retorts. His food has been abandoned, and he’s got that look in his eyes, like he’s ready to get up and pounce on him. “What, do you think you’re good enough?”

His mum looks at Eggsy from across the room and shakes her head once, wordlessly, eyes pleading. 

“No,” Eggsy says tonelessly. 

“Good,” Dean says, then goes back to his dinner. 

* * *

 He calls up Jamal and Ryan at last on his birthday, and they're so happy to see them that they don't ask questions. Or maybe they worked it out and mutually agreed to not talk about it until Eggsy brings it up, which is fine with him, as long as he can see them again. 

It's almost like old times. They sit in the Black Prince together, watching football and just chatting. Ryan and Jamal are mostly in between jobs now, though Ryan hints at an interview at Tesco's, thanks to an old mate who works there, and Jamal's sister has actually gotten a decent scholarship to study something involving science. Jamal jokes about the real smart one in the family, Ryan agrees, and both of them get into a fake scuffle over their chips, a double order with cheese and chili poured in obscene amounts over them. There's also a squished cupcake, the candle having blown out a long time ago, divided into three with sticky fingers and a plastic knife. Eggsy watches and laughs, telling them to be careful of their still-full pints on the table. 

Eventually, Ryan mock-surrenders, raising his hands, and both of them grin. "Have the better girlfriend, at least," Ryan says, then jabs Jamal. "Ah, that's right, you don't got one." 

"Oi, fuck off," Jamal says, rolling his eyes, then turns to Eggsy. "He fucking won't shut up about her. Met her online, and she's apparently fucking gorgeous and from Australia. Keep telling him she's probably some fifty-something cat lady." 

"She ain't," Ryan protests. "I've got pics, and we've talked a few times." He pulls out his mobile and swipes through them, pictures of a pretty blonde girl smiling at the camera. There's some of her waving on a beach, posing with a bulldog, and dancing at some club. "See?" 

"I don't believe it, bruv," Jamal says, shaking his head. He lightly punches Ryan on the shoulder. "That beach, it looks Photoshopped." 

"No, it doesn't!" 

"Yeah, it does." 

"Mates," Eggsy breaks in, "as long as she makes Ryan happy, it's good, ain't it?" 

"Ooh, Eggsy, that's beautiful!" Ryan places a dramatic hand over his heart, sighing softly. "That's right, bruv, gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous." 

"Fucking sap, not you, too," Jamal groans, taking a big gulp of his pint. He eyes the demolished remains of the cupcake, but doesn't take a bite. "What, you found a love like Ryan?" 

"Soulmate!" Ryan corrects, still swooning. His cheeks are red from either the alcohol or his bird, and he looks happier than Eggsy's ever seen for a while. 

"Nah," Eggsy says, then plucks a chip from its paper tray and chews it roughly, not looking them in the face. "Ain't no such thing." 

"Aw, there is," Ryan says, then pats him on the arm. "You'll find yours. In fact, that should be your birthday wish." 

"Won't waste mine on that," Eggsy scoffs, making Ryan groan and Jamal laugh uproariously. 

"Well, I'll make a wish for you, then," Ryan says, then raises his glass, beer sloshing over his fingers. "To Eggsy, our best mate! May he find the love of his life!" 

"And win the lottery," Jamal adds. "The national one, with the millions of pounds."

"I like that one better," Eggsy says, then clinks his drink against theirs. "Cheers." 

* * *

It's one evening when Eggsy's walking along Savile Row again, looking for more targets to help pay the next heat bill and some tablets for his mum when someone calls his name. 

At first, he doesn't turn around, sure hes misheard, but he hears it again, this time, more insistently. The voice is familiar, achingly so, but it's still a surprise when he sees Harry, walking towards him. 

“Oh, shit, Harry! What happened to your face?”

“I’m afraid someone tried to mug me on the train, and I put up a bit of a fight,” Harry replies nonchalantly, as if people often beat him up if he won’t give them his wallet. He’s perfectly put together as always, a black greatcoat over his fitted suit, with a dark green scarf to match, winding around his neck—but the injured eye is pretty hard to miss. “I'm terribly sorry I missed you, Eggsy. The doctors are terribly stubborn about keeping you for as long as you can." 

Before he knows what he’s doing, Eggsy reaches up to touch the shiner, gingerly brushing his fingers over the bruised eyelid. Harry closes his eyes, accepting his touch, and Eggsy continues that single motion, stroking back and forth, gently, ever so gently with careful fingers.

“I’m all right,” Harry says.

“I know,” Eggsy says. “It’s just…” He shakes his head. “If that guy who punched you in the face were standing right here, I’d give him the same treatment he gave you. Eye for an eye.”

Harry’s smile is fond. “Thank you, Eggsy, but I assure you I can take care of myself.”

 _You’re a tailor,_ Eggsy thinks, all those weeks of resentfulness and disappointment rolling off him. _You might be tougher than the average one, but you’re still a tailor._ He feels no small amount of tenderness for Harry now, something he’s used to feeling in different ways—helping out his mum, teaching Ryan a new parkour move, aiding Jamal manage his cohort of siblings—but never quite like this. Seeing Harry hurt knocks him off the pedestal Eggsy knows he’s built up for Harry—this untouchable man—and yeah, it scares him a little, but this is what he can do, take care of Harry, even just by a small gesture like this.

Eggsy realizes just then that he’s closer to Harry. He can feel the warm puffs of breath against his lips and see the little specks of lighter brown in Harry’s eyes, so close, with his fancy cologne and soft smile and hair still styled in this cold weather, and they’re suddenly kissing, right in the street.

Harry’s mouth is warm against the chill of the outdoors, his hand cradling the back of Eggsy’s head. He tastes like earl grey tea, the inside of his mouth pleasantly hot. Eggsy’s imagined doing this for longer than he’s cared to admit, but this is very, very different from what he’s expected—short, sweet, almost chaste—then slowly turning into more, hands gripping into Harry’s coat, Harry’s hands moving up and down his waist, Eggsy’s own hands gripping Harry’s hair.

“Wait,” Eggsy says, pulling back and glancing behind him. Some people on the street have definitely gotten a good look at them, and one is even stopping, staring at him and Harry curiously. “Not where…” 

“Cab?” Harry asks, reading his thoughts.

“Yes.”

Quick as a flash, Harry lifts his arm, and almost immediately, a cab pulls up to the curb. Harry opens the door for Eggsy, then follows right after, telling the driver an address. The driver nods, pulling away from the curb and not even giving them a backwards glance in the overhead mirror.

And Eggsy’s surprised he doesn’t know—or maybe he knows, can feel the charged energy between Eggsy and Harry like an approaching thunderstorm and doesn’t want any part of this. Harry’s sitting as primly as the Queen, ankles folded and hands holding onto his ever-present umbrella, and Eggsy’s on the opposite side of the seat, trying to both seem like staring out the window is the most fascinating thing ever and steal looks at Harry, just inches away from him.

They finally pull up at a house with its lights all turned down. There’s a garden in the front, but it looks like Harry hasn’t been taking care of it, and there’s no car parked in the driveway. It looks like the neighbors aren’t home, either, and when Eggsy steps out, there’s only a few streetlights on, one flickering uncertainly in the night.

After Harry pays the driver, he walks up the front and to the door, unlocking it and stepping aside for Eggsy to go through first. There’s definitely no lights, and before Eggsy’s eyes can adjust or his fingers can start searching for a light switch, Harry ‘s mouth is on his.

It’s a bit of surprise, but Eggsy quickly adjusts, his right hand immediately coming up to cup the back of Harry’s head, the other quickly moving down to splay across Harry’s broad shoulder bones. Harry’s mouth is warm, and his fingers are caressing Eggsy’s waist, pulling him in closer, closer so their hips touch.

Eggsy stiffens, fingers clenching tighter and tighter, but Harry doesn’t grab his arse and go for his cock like some of the other blokes he’s fooled around with. Instead, Harry pulls him closer, pressing Eggsy up against his chest, and Eggsy’s mouth opens wider, allowing Harry to taste him. Harry licks into his mouth obligingly, slow and soft, a gentle pressure, then kisses him hard and deep, Eggsy emitting an embarrassing moan like this is his first fucking time.

They finally have to pull away for air, looking at each other, lingering. Eggsy’s lips are warm with Harry’s breath and wet with Harry’s saliva, his hands still clutched in Harry’s suit like a lifeline, his heart racing a hundred miles an hour. And Harry—even though Eggsy can’t quite see him clearly, not in the dark like this—feels hot to the touch, his breath gone a bit less steadier.

Eggsy leans forward, mouthing at Harry’s lower jaw, then down his neck to the sensitive join of his shoulder. He allows his teeth to scrape ever so slightly, pausing, wondering if Harry will allow a mark. His cock is pressed tightly against their bodies, and Harry’s right hand has migrated to his hip, squeezing a gentle, steadying pressure.

He’s ready to take off his jeans, kick them away, and let Harry put those wonderful hands on his cock when something chimes loudly in the quiet room. Eggsy jerks away, startled, as Harry curses and fumbles for something in his trousers, taking his hand off Eggsy’s hip.

He waits, hard and aching and a bit irritated, as Harry pulls out his phone and curses again.

“Shit,” Harry mutters. “Work."

Eggsy groans, tilting his head back, wanting to bang it against a wall. “Are you fucking _serious_?”

“Sadly, I am,” Harry, at least, sounds as disappointed as Eggsy does. “I’m sorry, Eggsy.”

“Can’t you call in sick?” Eggsy grumbles, but knows Harry can’t. His boss and his job are demanding as fuck, and Eggsy can’t ask him to stay because they want a roll in the hay.

Harry regretfully peels himself away, kissing Eggsy quickly on the mouth. “I’m sorry, Eggsy, I’m sorry. Let me call a cab.”

So, Harry doesn’t want him to stay in his house. Fine. Eggsy tries not to let his building frustration show as he says, “Sure, Harry, thanks.” 

Harry clearly senses it, placing a hand on his shoulder and gently rubbing the muscle. "Eggsy. I don't want to leave. But here." 

From his coat, he pulls out his mobile, makes a few swipes and taps, and holds it out to him. Slowly, Eggsy takes it, seeing an empty contact entry. 

"If you want," Harry says. 

Wordlessly, Eggsy enters his name and number, handing it back and exchanging it for his own mobile. He can be careful, he thinks, not text in the flat, and his secret will be safe; he's sure of it. Harry does the same with his phone, and their fingers lightly brush, sending sparks through their skin. There's one last look that passes between them, desire crackling like lightning about to strike, before Harry reluctantly pulls away. 

"Call me this time," Eggsy suggests, trying to sound casual, but sure that he's anything but that.  

"I will," Harry promises. 

* * *

Harry does, and they repeat their usual routine of going out for lunch. There's something new occupying Harry's evenings, an important new suit commission or whatever, but Eggsy finds himself not really minding, as long as he gets to see Harry. 

Sometimes it’s a bit erratic, Eggsy not seeing Harry for days, sometimes week at a time, but every meeting with Harry seems to blow all those frustrating, boring hours away. Harry always pays for both of their meals, something Eggsy finds a bit frustrating but can’t seem to dissuade Harry of.

But whether it’s strolling around the streets of London or through a park or sitting in their usual café, they talk—sometimes a bit of idle chatter, sometimes about serious things. Not anything about his family or his fruitless job search or quitting the Marines, nothing like that, but about things Eggsy wouldn’t normally pay attention to, like the news and politics. Harry always has an opinion on something, and sometimes, Eggsy disagrees on this or that stance, but most of the time, he and Harry align.

They talk about movies, the traffic, music, weather, Harry’s work, football, school stories, customer service. There’s always something that some posh prick did—either at the tailor shop or some other place Harry goes to. Eggsy pumps him for information about all the exotic places Harry gets to see, drinking in every detail, everything that takes him away from the grey and gloom of London.

Sometimes, though, either of them will say or do something—a lingering look, a sliver of a touch, a coy innuendo—that reminds Eggsy of the chemistry between them, so far untouched. If this was secondary all over again, he’d jump Harry and never look back.

But everything’s different now. Harry’s not someone who’d probably be down for a quick handy in an alleyway. And even if things did go further, Eggsy can’t live with Harry, not in his posh home and away with his mum and soon-to-be little sibling under the thumb of his stepdad.

And there’s something closed off about Harry, though Eggsy can’t exactly pinpoint why. Maybe it’s their age, their class, their places in life, their respective personalities. Some days, when Harry talks about traveling, Eggsy burns with envy and a little bit of a resenting. He’s had some fantasies about tagging along with Harry, jetsetting and wandering around the city while Harry has his meetings during the day, then going out together during the evening. Maybe they’d come back to the hotel and unwind in a bubbling Jacuzzi or head to bed, careful to muffle sounds so the other occupants don’t hear.

But they can never be like that. Even if Harry offered, he couldn’t. He’d never be able to repay Harry; he’d never be able to come up with some viable excuse for his mum and Dean; he’d never be able to leave anyone, especially after the baby's born.

And it’s so fucking frustrating. Eggsy’s collected tidbits about Harry—how he loves French onion soup and a grilled panini, as well as Thai takeaway; how he loves arthouse films and musicals, but appreciates a flashy action film once in a while; how he used to have a terrier when he was in his twenties and thirties; how he has a constant habit of being late to his meetings, much to his boss’s and coworkers’ disgruntlement; how he loathes crowds and only has a circle of three close friends—but there seem to be so much more to fill in the blanks. If he were a normal person, if they could see each other more often, if Dean wasn’t around, he could learn all these other things. But he can only snatch at a few hours of encounters, not daring to text Harry in his own flat for fear of Dean getting curious.

Instead, he still searches for jobs, helps his mum around the house, and sets up more drinking nights with Jamal and Ryan. They say nothing about his conspicuous absences around the estates or the unspoken questions about his Marines training. Instead, they welcome him back home with open arms, paying for a few of his drinks and sometimes dragging him out to the movies. Ryan offers to put in a good word for him at the Tesco’s he’s working at, and Jamal says that his flat is open anytime, that he’s got a room open ‘cause his sister’s moved out.

And if they notice Eggsy’s a bit more furtive than usual, they don’t mention it. Ryan's still wrapped up with his girlfriend, Jamal's mind on his potential apprenticeship at some garage, and Eggsy keeps his secrets to himself.

* * *

He's at another lunch with Harry, some stuffy Indian restaurant with amazing samosas, and discussing the last night's football game when his mobile rings.

"We gotta eventually turn 'em off," he jokes, then checks the screen. It’s Jamal’s mum, and worried, Eggsy hits the call button, shooting an apologetic look at Harry, who only smiles and goes back to his curry vindaloo. “Yeah, what’s up?”

"Eggsy,” his mum’s voice says breathlessly, “Jamal’s mum is driving me to the hospital—”

“Hospital?” Eggsy gasps. “Shit, Mum, are you—is it—” 

“Yes, babe, it’s time. Look, I got to hang up so I can do some breathing, but I love you, Eggsy; I love you so much.”

“Where are you going?” Eggsy asks frantically, already planning on racing down to the tube station, mentally typing in the directions that he needs into his phone, maybe convincing someone to give him a ride the rest of the way. “To the local one?”

“It’s the closest,” she answers, before letting out a heavy breath. “Okay, I got to go, I…” Another laboured breath. “I love you, Eggsy.”

Eggsy stares at his mobile a few seconds after his mum hangs up, then turns to Harry, who looks concerned, having put down his fork. 

“I’m sorry,” Eggsy says. “I have to go; my mum needs me.”

Harry doesn’t even hesitate. “Go,” he insists. “Let me call a cab.”

* * *

 

Whatever Harry says to the driver, the speedometer doesn’t dip below sixty the whole way to the hospital. Eggsy manages to get there just as they’re giving his mum the drugs, and she manages a weak smile for him, stretching her arms out towards him. He takes them, letting her dig her nails into his flesh, and she already looks exhausted in her white hospital gown. Jamal's mum couldn't stay, she explains, because she had to work, and Ryan's mum is babysitting, so it's just them for the long haul. 

“Dean?” Eggsy asks.

His mum wordlessly shakes her head.

Eggsy wants to whip out his mobile, dial Dean, and tell him to get off his arse and be with the mother of his child, no matter if there’s a football game or a night off or a fucking earthquake. He wants to shout that Dean needs to shape up, man up, be the father he never was for Eggsy. He wants to reach out and physically shake Dean.

But he knows that these words will be wasted on a man like Dean.  Instead, he goes over to his mum, allows her to grip his hand as tightly as she can, and tries to be there for her. 

It’s a long wait. Sometimes, Eggsy has to leave to go to the loo or drink a bit from the water cooler in the lobby, but he always comes back. His mum’s grip tightens around his hands, toes curling, eyes squeezing shut, mouth tightening in pain, while the doctors monitor her progress ever so often, telling her she’s doing very well, very well, and that she shouldn’t start pushing yet. Sweat trickles down her forehead, and she hisses several times through her teeth, nails pushing further and further into his skin. Her curses start getting more and more creative, making one doctor flush a little, and Eggsy would laugh if he found the situation anything less than terrifying and stressful. 

His eyes are getting heavy, legs gone numb even though someone supplied a chair for him, but he doesn’t let go of her hand.

“You can do this, Mum,” Eggsy says, ignoring the numbness that’s seeping into his fingers. “Mum, come on, you can do this, you can do this."

One of the doctors checks her again, Eggsy dutifully looking away towards the ceiling, and someone says, “All right, Michelle, you’re going to start pushing. I think it’s best you leave.”

It takes a few seconds to realize that the doctor’s talking to him. “What? I ain’t leaving.”

“You really do have to, love,” she replies with a sympathetic smile. “You’re just going to get in our way.”

“But—” he protests.

“Wait in the lobby, sir, and we’ll call you, all right?” the doctor asks, not waiting for a reply and jerking her head towards the door. Eggsy lays one last kiss to his mum’s forehead before reluctantly pulling away, walking out the door just as his mum begins to moan. 

Later, he’d find out that it didn’t take as long as he’d thought, but to him now, it seems like forever, pacing up and down the lobby, checking his phone to watch the clock. He texts Jamal and Ryan, thinks about texting Harry, but doesn't, realizing Harry knows nothing more about him than his name and favorite foods, movies, and football teams. At the time, Eggsy preferred the anonymity, but now, he looks back to how much he's been keeping from Harry, as much as Harry's really keeping from him. 

Their worlds won't collide this way, Eggsy knows. They can never touch, and it's better if Harry just knows him as some guy who's attractive and likes some of the same stuff Harry does. He won't want the desperation, the loneliness, the estates, the dead father, Dean, all the baggage that comes with him. And that's fine. That's fine with him. 

* * *

 “Eggsy,” the doctor finally calls. She’s smiling, which is a good sign, and beckons him towards the brightly-lit hallway. “Your mum wants to see you.”

He follows her to the room, where the doctor gently knocks on the door and then opens it, stepping aside for Eggsy to enter. He does, his eyes locked on his mum in the white, soft hospital gown, tangled hair sticking to some parts of her face and neck, forehead gleaming from the quick wash they must have given her, face still a bit red and exhausted. In her arms is a tiny bundle. 

“Daisy,” his mum says, voice slightly slurred, but smiling. “How’s that?”

“It’s a good name, Mum,” Eggsy says, walking closer, practically on tiptoe. He peers over as close as he dares at the little face, eyes shut tight against the brightness of the hospital room. 

“After my mum,” she says, closing her eyes. “I wish you could have met her, Eggs. Fuck, she took no shit from anyone, but was so kind, treated Lee like the son she never had, helped out when you were born.” Her words grow softer and softer. “I wish she was here.” 

Eggsy lightly touches her arm. It's him and his mum now in this room, together against the world, with this new addition. There's no Lee Unwin, no Unwins or Mitchells, no one else. They're the last of the Unwins, it seems like, and there's just one more with Baker blood in her, too. 

But the other Baker isn't here now. Dean didn’t come; of course he fucking didn’t. 

He tries not to let his bitterness cloud his mum's obvious happiness. "She looks...uh..." Eggsy takes a closer look. Daisy's face is bright red, wrinkled, as if she hit a wall at full speed, and some flecks of white are around her eyelids and across her nose. Her lips are down turned, eyes squeezed shut, and her feet briefly kick underneath the bundle. And jammed on her head is a small, pink hat, making her face look even redder. "Uh...not what I expected." 

“Oi, you weren’t a looker yourself,” his mum says, seeing through him immediately. “Bald as an egg, you were.”

“Is that how I got my nickname?” 

“Yes,” she says, laughing softly, then her voice trails off softly: “Lee…Lee gave you that one. No one ever got to call you Gary."

He’s never known that tidbit. Eggsy sits down beside the hospital bed in the chair someone had moved in for him, allowing that to wash over him. His mum's silent now, slightly rocking her new daughter and his new little sister in her arms, and Eggsy only watches Daisy's fists clench and unclench in her mitts. 

* * *

He hasn't been able to arrange a date with Harry, his days taking on a new sort of rhythm. Daisy's surprisingly a lot of work for such a little things with rocking, feeding, changing, soothing, burping, bathing, and sleeping. Dean doesn't give a whit about the last one, slamming the door when he gets home and then grumbling when Daisy wakes up and starts howling. He's taken one look at Daisy and let his eyes pass over her dismissively, turning back to Michelle and asking her when she can get up and do her usual things again. 

Dean's apathy seems to awaken some sort of spite in Eggsy, even though the banality, the irritation still creeps in when Daisy starts fussing. But something in him isn't like that, isn't going to allow Daisy to sit in her own shit or go hungry or be lonely. He still knows fuck all about babies, but he's still learning: testing the milk on the inside of his wrist when it comes out of the microwave, bouncing her gently up and down while humming soft ballads, being careful to support her head and neck, patting her back and throwing a towel over his shoulder when she needs to burp, filling up the sink with bubbles and warm water, and breathing in instead of holding his breath while changing her nappy. There's still duty to it, yeah, but Daisy's so small, so unknowing, so trusting that Eggsy can't help it. 

He can't claim that he's doing most of the work, but he likes these moments where Daisy rests on his chest, softly snoring against the beat of his heart, tiny hand curled around his index finger. She isn't that bad, not really, not the burden he'd secretly thought she was for nearly a year. Eggsy snaps some pics for Jamal and Ryan, both of them cooing over how cute she is. They cheer up Ryan, since his girlfriend broke things off with him after deciding he was too far away, and when Eggsy can get away, he and Jamal are taking him out for a pint to drown his sorrows.

For now, though, it's Daisy.  

* * *

"How are you, Eggsy?" Harry asks, smiling at him as if he hasn't been basically MIA for a good long while.  

It's been a few weeks, veering into December. Luckily, Dean's kept up with the heat bill, and even though Daisy can't drink any tea or hot cocoa like him and his mum, she stays warm with bundles of blankets and lots of tiny baby socks, rarely going outside. Sometimes, snow falls, and most days, it's cold enough to see breaths fog up the air. Eggsy now watches the soft, white mist fall out from between Harry's lips, curling in the air, shivering a little in his layered jackets. 

"I'm all right," Eggsy says, wondering if Harry can see the dark circles underneath his eyes from staying up to the early morning, trying to help his mum get Daisy to sleep, "just have been busy." 

"And cold," Harry says, pulling him closer by the hands. His gloved ones hold Eggsy's bright red fingers in his, and Harry strokes over them, looking concerned. "Very cold." 

"Feel a bit warmer now." 

"Not warm enough. Shall we go someplace warmer?" 

Eggsy readily agrees, and Harry pulls him closer, arm around his waist, before hailing a cab. Again, they both step in, gratefully sighing at the heated if stuffy interior, and head off. "Where are we going?" Eggsy asks, closing his eyes and leaning back against the leather seats. He feels Harry's arm still around his shoulder, a comforting weight, and fuck, Harry's never done this before, holding onto him so gently and so naturally, as if it's the easiest thing. 

"Home," Harry says simply. 

 _Home_ , Eggsy thinks, a bit sleepily. "Your place?" he asks.

"Yes," Harry replies, "where we can put the kettle on, sit in front of the roaring fire."

 _Like the first time we met._ "Sounds good to me," Eggsy says, smile curling up his lips, eyes still closed.  

He must have fallen asleep because Harry has to shake him by the shoulder when the cab stops, and Eggsy blearily blinks before opening the door and beginning to step out. 

With a curse, with Harry exclaiming, "Eggsy, watch out!," Eggsy's foot catches something, and he falls on his hands and knees, startling a gasp from him. He hears Harry running around the car, asking him if he's all right, with the driver doing the same thing, as he tries to stand up, falling again on the slippery road, asphalt stinging his hands and pressing through his jeans. He's sure he's got some nasty bruise already forming on the side of his right knee and some gravel stuck to his hands, as well as wet slush soaking into his clothes, and fuck, don't he feel like an idiot. 

"Are you all right?" Harry asks, immediately bending down to help him up. With Harry's help, Eggsy's able to haul himself to his feet, but the damage is done, snow having soaked through his jeans and socks. The driver looks alarmed, as if he's worried Eggsy's going to sue him or something for injuring himself with his cab, but Harry quickly waves him away with a few bills. 

"Yeah, I'm all right," Eggsy says, a bit too late. His hands sting, his knee kinda hurts, but he's fine, otherwise. He's taken harder falls before. "I'm good, Harry." 

"Well, we really got to get you in," Harry says, as the cab's engine turns, beginning to back down the driveway. "Oh, dear, you need a change of clothes, don't you?" 

"Sorry," Eggsy mutters, as Harry takes him by the elbow and guides him to the door. He really doesn't need it, but it's not like he's going to complain. 

"No, no," Harry says, then pulls out the key and twists it into the lock, opening the door quickly and helping Eggsy step up through the threshold. The heater's already going, much to Eggsy's relief, and Harry closes the door behind them, not bothering to take off his coat or gloves as he examines Eggsy, looking rather anxious. "Shall I draw you a bath?" Harry asks. 

"Don't have to," Eggsy says. 

"But do you want it?" Harry counters. "Or perhaps a quick shower?" 

Eggsy considers before nodding. "Shower, yeah." 

“Bathroom’s down the hall,” Harry says. “I do believe my robe’s still hanging on the door. I can slip in some clothes if you prefer.”  

Eggsy grunts, then makes his way towards the bathroom. The hallway walls are bare, without a single picture in sight. He thought Harry would be the type to have something like oil paintings or shadowboxes or knick-knacks, but this house is surprisingly sparse. Harry seems very minimalist, and it's only confirmed when Eggsy opens the bathroom door to see a sparse white bathroom, with a plaid shower curtain and some plain brown towels hung up on the racks. He closes the door behind him, fiddles with the shower handle, and when the water's hot enough, sheds his clothes and steps in. 

He sighs gratefully, allowing to just bask in the warmth before reaching for one of the bottles stacked in wire baskets tucked in the corners. There's some golden goop from one of the shampoo bottles that smells like Harry that Eggsy rubs into his scalp, along with a soft, white foam like whipped cream that Eggsy rubs into his skin. Steam quickly fills the room, opening his pores, and Eggsy sighs contently, stretching his arms up above his head. 

Not allowing himself to linger for longer than necessary, Eggsy turns off the shower and steps out, wrapping himself in one of the towels. He picks up his clothes, carefully wrapping his medal in his shirt, and places them on the sink. 

He takes a few seconds to look over himself in the mirror after opening the door and allowing some of the air to clear the fog from the glass. Marines training still has his mark on him. There’s a small, slight trace of a scar on his side from when Dean shoved him into the kitchen table, along with a ghost of a bruise on his knee. His chin’s jutted up in such a way that it looks as if he’s preparing for a fight, and his hair's a bit longer, damp and a darker shade of brown. He turns his hands, a bit of a stinging pink on the palms, and checks his knee before stepping out. 

There's a bundle in the hallway, and Eggsy slips on the pyjama pants, the grey cotton shirt, and the red robe. He looks at the plain black slippers, shrugs, and wriggles his toes in. 

In the front room, Harry's turned on the fireplace, now shifting the logs with a poker. He's taken off his coat and gloves, standing with his back to Eggsy in tailored trousers and a plain white button-down, and Eggsy swallows hard, clearing his throat. 

When Harry turns to look at him, his gaze is soft. There's desire in them, but Eggsy wouldn't call it lust, exactly. It's as if Harry's been waiting for something. 

Harry comes forward and they kiss for what seems like the first time, hesitant and slow. Eggsy reaches up and traces fingers up Harry's neck, massaging it, and Harry sighs into his mouth, hands coming up to cup his face. Behind Harry, the fire crackles softly in the well-lit room, flames jumping and leaping ever so slightly in place. Eggsy pushes himself further upwards on his toes, grabbing Harry's hair between his fingers. 

When they pull apart, Eggsy lets the robe fall around his feet, then kicks off the slippers. The shirt is pulled up and over his head, then the pyjama bottoms fall to the ground in a soundless heap. Standing there, bare and vulnerable, Eggsy looks at Harry, who immediately reaches for him, fingers tracing over his torso, the muscles that are coiled up hard under his skin. “You are so beautiful.” 

His mouth presses open-mouthed kisses along Eggsy’s neck, moving up to touch the underside of his jaw, as his left hand glides up Eggsy’s chest to tweak a nipple. Eggsy shudders, sensitive and on edge, and Harry repeats the motion. 

“Harry,” Eggsy gasps, as Harry gently thumbs at the same spot, almost soothingly. “Harry…”

"Eggsy," Harry says, then steps back. 

It's his turn to take his clothes off, and it's slow and unhurried, like some sort of show. First are the elegant fingers unbuttoning his shirt, then lifting it as delicately as a handkerchief onto the nearby leather couch. Next go the white undershirt, draped over the shirt, and Harry stands, hands going to his belt as Eggsy admires the toned muscles, the unexpected lack of softness he'd expected from someone Harry's age. He wonders if Harry goes to the gym regularly or if he has a trainer, but either way, Harry's doing a spectacular job. There's curling hair on his chest, and when Harry slips his belt off, then tugs at his trousers, Eggsy notices more poking out from what look like, as he'd suspected, silk pants. 

Harry's legs are longer than he thought, stepping out of his trousers with such effortless grace that Eggsy's half tempted to make him pull them up and take them off again. He looks up at Eggsy, almost hesitantly, and Eggsy smiles at him. 

"Like what you see?" Harry asks. 

"I do," Eggsy says, stepping forward and splaying his hands, running them up and down Harry's skin. They explore Harry's body as Harry explores his, still in front of the fireplace and curtains drawn over the windows. The rug is plush underneath their feet, and Eggsy's just about to suggest, _fuck it, let's just stay here_ , when Harry reaches down to stroke Eggsy’s cock.

Eggsy rocks his hips up into Harry’s touch as fingers glide up and down, squeezing gently. His cock swells, and almost too soon, there's a fumble for a condom in one of the drawers in the coffee table, and Harry's hands gently guide him down and onto the rug. They kiss again, slowly and languidly, hands roving, Eggsy returning the favor, getting Harry's cock as hard as his before slipping on the condom with trembling fingers, hoping to somewhere out there that he doesn't rip the fucking thing. 

As soon as everything's in place, Eggsy with his back on the rug and Harry slowly spreading his body over Eggsy's, Harry leans down to kiss his neck, a brief, open-mouthed press. “Do you…?”

“Yes,” Eggsy insists, clutching at Harry’s shoulders. “Yes, Harry, yes.”

“All right,” Harry says, so calmly that Eggsy opens his eyes. What he sees is a man with a few strands coming loose from his coiffed hair, his right hand stretching towards the coffee table's drawers, his eyes bright with eagerness.

Eggsy waits, back against the rug, legs spread, as Harry pulls open the drawer and gets out a small bottle of lube, setting it on the floor. 

He’s a bowstring ready to snap, and his hips thrust forward when Harry’s finger, slick with lube, slides into him. There’s that moment where Eggsy tenses at the intrusion, fists curling into the bunched up rug, and Harry stops, but Eggsy shakes his head. “Come on, go on.”

Harry obliges, but takes his time pushing his finger in and out before adding another, filling Eggsy slowly and carefully. Eggsy tosses his head back when Harry crooks his fingers, rubbing deliberately at that spot inside him that makes him curl his toes. Pleasure washes over him, and he can only lie back and take it, Harry drawing his fingers in and out, rotating and nudging, continuing that pressure against Eggsy’s prostate.

Eggsy impatiently squirms, calling Harry's name, impatiently pulling at his arms until he hears another click of the cap and another rustle of a plastic wrapper, then closes his eyes when Harry’s cock nudges against him.

“Please,” he gasps.

And Harry obliges, pushing into him as slowly as he did with his fingers, Eggsy clutching at his forearms, until his cock is seated deep inside, stretching Eggsy open. 

There’s a rhythm to this kind of thing, Harry’s hips beginning to rotate, Harry’s cock moving in and out, Harry’s fingers clenching and unclenching at his shoulders. The pressure and rhythm increase as soon as Eggsy nods, Eggsy feeling the exquisite sensation of Harry pushing into him, pulling out, then filing him again. His hands are clutching Harry’s forearms, digging his nails in, and tries to loosen his grip, worried about hurting Harry, but Harry’s eyes show no sign of pain, only lust and intensity.

Eggsy presses himself tighter against Harry, legs spreading, hips thrusting upwards, calling his name. He knows what he looks like—cheeks and chest flushed dark red, lips swollen and wet, hole stretched by Harry’s cock—and can’t help but squirm.

Harry’s hand comes up to cup his cheek, then moves to push through his damp hair, stritching, and his forehead comes down to touch Eggsy’s. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” Eggsy breathes, nuzzling into Harry’s touch. Harry mutters something, burying his face into Eggsy's shoulder. There are sweet words, but all Eggsy can do is reach up and clutch Harry's shoulders, making all sorts of incomprehensible noises, as Harry pushes in and stays there for a few moments, trembling when his release hits. His hand moves to take Eggsy's cock again, and Eggsy closes his eyes when the intense wave of pleasure hits him, too. 

Harry slips out and gets rid of the condoms, tossing them with an unceremonious thunk into the bin. Then, he lays back on the floor with Eggsy and tugs him close. It's a sleepy, lazy sensation, curled up in front of the fireplace with sweat still on their bodies, skin still hot to the touch. 

"Mm," Eggsy breathes, closing his eyes. "Wish I could stay here." 

"Can you?" Harry asks, voice slightly fatigued, and Eggsy smiles before shaking his head. 

"No, can't. Gotta get back to my mum, help out with the baby." 

"You have a sibling?" 

"Yeah," Eggsy says. "Sister. You?"

"None," Harry replies, then strokes a hand over Eggsy's bare arm. "Only child." 

"And did you always want to be a tailor?" Eggsy asks playfully. He feels like he's asked this before, but he's so wrung out, so orgasm-stupid that he can't remember a thing. 

Harry chuckles against his shoulder. "No. I was going to go to university and figure out things from there. Became a soldier, then a tailor." 

"Soldier," Eggsy repeats, then feels some of the afterglow melt away. He wonders if Harry signed up to be in the Marines, too. "Yeah, sounds cool."

"What about you?" Harry asks, pressing another kiss to Eggsy's shoulder. "What did you want to be?" 

“I thought I was going to be a car mechanic,” Eggsy admits.

“Then, what happened?”

“Nothing came of it,” Eggsy mutters, then begins to shrug away. The rug's beginning to stick to his legs, and some of his muscles have cramped. His face has also gotten uncomfortably hot from the fire, too, and his hair's almost completely dry. His borrowed clothes are strewn across the floor, and he's got to see if his own are dry. 

“You are so much more than you think,” Harry says, almost fiercely. It would be flattering if Eggsy believed a word of it. “Potential.”

Before Eggsy can even think of a response to that, his phone rings from the bathroom. 

"Fuck," he mutters, then pulls away, using his knee as leverage to push himself up from the carpet. Harry's hand slips from his body, and Eggsy heads over the the loo, grabbing the robe on his way to pull it over his shoulders. His mobile's still in his jeans, and Eggsy slides it out before answering it without checking the ID. 

"Eggsy!" Dean shouts, so loudly that Eggsy winces, jabbing the volume down before placing it to his ear again. "Wherever you are, come back _now_."

* * *

As soon as he walks through the door, his heart drops at the sight of Dean waiting for him, his mum clutching at his arm. Daisy's in her crib near the kitchen, but Eggsy doesn't take his eyes off of Dean, who snaps, snarling like a rabid dog, "You've got a lot of explaining to do." 

“Dean,” his mum tries, but Dean slashes the air in front of him like a knife, and his mum falls silent.

 "No!” Dean shouts. “You don’t get to say nothing, and you neither, you shit. Nothing!” He reaches out to snatch Eggsy's arm, tugging him closer with a hard yank, fingers digging into his skin, and Eggsy winces. “You’re going to look at the table. Right here.” 

Dread sinks in Eggsy’s stomach when he sees the crumpled bills he's been storing up for nearly a year laying conspicuously on the table, cleared of magazines and beer cans. 

“Tell me, Eggsy,” Dean says, slowly, as if Eggsy's nine again. “What is that?”

“Money,” he says tonelessly.

“After everything I do for you, for your mum, I find my hard-earned money hidden all over this house?” Dean’s practically boiling over, face turning red. His grip grows tighter, twisting Eggsy's pain so painfully that he has to bite his lip to keep from yelling. “What were you going to do with all that, huh? Run away? Buy a new flat without me around? Think you’re too good?” 

"No," Eggsy begins, but Dean's not having it, cuffing him around the head, bracing him so he doesn't drop to the floor. "No!" he insists, as another blow rings his head, then another. "I don't, I didn't—"

“It’s not his,” his mum says, voice as clear as a bell, and Dean whirls on her, eyes dancing with fury, one fist raised. 

“What?” he snaps.

“Mum—” Eggsy starts, but she hushes him.

“It’s mine,” his mum says. Her tone is deferential, shoulders slumped, hands wringing nervously in front of her belly. “I was going to buy some things for the baby—dummies, blankets, diapers, clothes, that sort of thing. And it ain’t your money, Dean, it’s mine. I’ve been…been doing some odd jobs ‘round the estate so you don’t have to—have to pay for the baby.”

Eggsy freezes, but his mum doesn't look at him, eyes on Dean, who looks between her and Eggsy, jaw clenched. “Is this true?”

“Yes.” His mum nods, voice very level. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

Dean grunts, and slowly, he lets go of Eggsy’s arm.

“Yeah, you should’ve,” he mutters, scooping up the bills and shoving them in his pocket. 

“I’m sorry,” his mum says, “but I didn’t want—want to bother you.”

Dean shakes his head, then walks towards the door, yanking it open. "Going to the pub. Have this place fucking cleaned up by the time I'm done." 

The door slams behind him, and his mum sighs, shoulders slumping. She looks more tired than she has in years, cardigan draping over her form, hair dangling in front of her face. Daisy begins to cry pitifully from her crib, wailing increasing in frequency the more her mum and brother stand there, silent and still. 

“Mum,” Eggsy begins, but she shakes her head, then walks over to the crib to pull Daisy up, turning her back on him. 

* * *

It's been a week, and his mum still hasn't really talked to him, but Eggsy's trying not to think about it. Snow’s falling as he and Harry are walking through the park, sipping on their hot chocolates, when Harry’s arm wraps around his waist, drawing him closer. “You're cold.”

“Eh, not really,” Eggsy says, though his teeth chattering sort of kill the statement. “’Sides, the hot chocolate helps.”

"A perfect treat for the hustle and bustle of the day," Harry comments, taking a sip and sighing contently. “Shop’s picking up.”

Eggsy shakes his head in sympathy. “At least you get a day off for Christmas, yeah?”

“I won’t be home around Christmas, I’m afraid,” Harry says. “Special commission in South America.”

Eggsy startles, a tiny bit intrigued. “South America?”

“Yes, they’re rather desperate for help.” Harry trails off, then continues, “I believe I get back a week after Boxing Day.”

Is that a hint? Eggsy hesitates for a second, then asks, very slowly, “But before that, are you…?”

“This Saturday, yes,” Harry says. He looks at Eggsy and smiles. “Perhaps you’d like to spend it with me?”

* * *

That day, Eggsy slips out of the flat, dressed in his nicest pair of jeans and warmest coat. He’s already prepared an excuse, a simple one about spending the day with Ryan and Jamal. His mates will cover for him, both of them clamoring for information on where he’s exactly going, but Eggsy promises to tell them later—how much later is the question.

He doesn’t care that outside is freezing and that the tube is almost too warm with all the bodies crushed together. All he cares about is how he’s going to see Harry tonight. 

When he meets Harry in front of the tailor shop, they can only smile at each other, despite the cold nipping at their faces. 

“Hello, Eggsy,” Harry says warmly.

"Hello, Harry," Eggsy returns, and they embrace, before Harry steps back and signals for a cab. 

Once they arrive at Harry's house, Eggsy notices the box on the kitchen table, right among the covered dishes and wine glasses. 

“It’s an early Christmas present,” Harry says, watching him with vulnerability in his eyes. “I hope you like it.”

Eggsy approaches the box like it’s filled with a snarling animal, then lifts the lid off.

He can only stare, speechless. Nestled in the box is a rich-blue winter coat with polished black toggles and pockets lined with wool. Laid out neatly on top is a pair of gloves. 

He lifts out the gloves first, pulling them on and flexing his fingers. They're close-fitting and soft, the caramel leather giving easily as his joints bend, the lining closing snugly around his fingers, promising to be both warm and comfortable.

Then, he lifts the coat out of its box and holds it out in front of him for a few seconds. It’s slightly heavy, falling open to reveal wool lining, dark and puffy, and when Eggsy slips into it, he’s instantly warm. The collar gently touches the back of his neck, and the hood dangles promisingly. The hem falls to his knees, and the sleeves almost brush against his knuckles. It's warm and heavy, and very, very generous. 

"I love them," Eggsy says softly. They're beautiful and useful, the nicest things he's ever been given. He wouldn't know where to begin looking for a present for Harry that can match this.

As if Harry senses what he's thinking, he gives Eggsy a soothing kiss before his hands come up, smoothing down the lapels. “You look lovely," he murmurs, adjusting the collar so it sits more comfortably under his chin. “And you won’t be cold.”

They look at each other, eyes soft and fond, Eggsy’s heart swelling with each second. “Harry,” he begins, stumbling over his words, “I—”

But he can't say it, only able to look up at Harry, hoping what Harry sees in his eyes is enough. 

Harry strokes a hand over Eggsy's cheek and kisses him, soft and sweet. "Shall we eat?" he asks. 

Dinner is relaxed and drawn out, feasting on stew and chicken pot pie and roasted vegetables, as well as a moist chocolate cake and few glasses of red wine. Eggsy drapes his new coat, with the gloves tucked in the pockets, carefully over his chair.

They talk about holidays and South America and different Christmas recipes and the usual things. He's aware of Harry's feet brushing up against his legs, and it only takes a look for them to retreat to the bedroom after dessert. 

All too soon, at the end of the evening, Harry kisses him again and releases him into the swirling snow and warm cab, and Eggsy keeps it all the way home. 

* * *

When Eggsy comes back, still riding on the high of that evening, when Dean greets him with a short "fetch some Rizlas before the shops close," before his face turns into a sneer. "Nice coat, Mugsy. Where did you get it?" 

Shit. He should have taken it off, stashed it somewhere. Dean knows full well Eggsy hasn't got any money of his own to spend on something like this. 

Eggsy only shrugs, backing towards the door.

Naturally, this gets Dean a bit more pissed. "Steal it? Get it from someone on Smith Street? Or..." He drags the syllable out. "From whoever you've been sneaking off to see?" 

Eggsy freezes. He’d been careful, he thought, but there are things trickling in his mind, adding up, revealing a total: constant texting, secret smiles, sneaking out. Fuck, he probably seemed too _happy._

Dean laughs. "Think that bitch of yours is going to take you in? Take you away, sweep you up on a white horse?" 

He has to concentrate on not answering, feet constantly moving, trying not to stumble over anything and to move fast enough to get to the door, but slow enough so Dean doesn't quite notice what he's doing. 

"Take it off." Dean barks out a laugh when Eggsy startles, jolting in place. "Go on, might as well make me some money." 

Eggsy blurts out: "No." 

“No?” Dean’s face twists into something truly ugly, and he steps forward, fists ready to swing. "Did you say no?" 

And _is_ he ready? Ready to fight Dean over some coat? His fingers have just gone up to one of the toggles to unfasten it when he remembers Harry, smoothing the lapels and adjusting his collar. _You're cold._ His smile, his tenderness, his love...

"No," Eggsy says, and in one motion, closes his fingers around the door handle and turns, pushing himself out. “It's mine.”

And he runs. 

* * *

But he has nowhere to go.

Instead, Eggsy wanders the streets, lit by lamps and Christmas lights strung around the shops. His breath comes out in shallow puffs, and he refuses to acknowledge the tightening in his throat and pressure against his eyelids.

Before he knows what he’s doing, Eggsy’s gotten onto the tube set out for Greater London. He doesn't think about what he's going to do, only knows where he's going. His speeches tangle in his mind, twisting and gnarling, and when he steps out of the train, he heads for Kingsman, still lit even at this hour. 

But when he pushes open the door, there's no Harry or the older man, only some bald bloke putting on his scarf and hat. 

"Ah," he says, a faint trace of a Scottish accent in his voice. "I'm sorry, young man, but we're just about to close." 

"Do you know Harry?" Eggsy asks. 

The man tilts his head, eyes assessing. "I do," he says at last. 

"Then can you give him this?" Eggsy asks, then strips off the coat and gloves, squashing down the pang of regret as he folds them up and thrusts the bundle at the man. It's definitely cowardly, something Jamal's sister would throttle him for, but Eggsy doesn't know what else to do. 

The man looks confused. "What—" 

"I'm sorry," Eggsy says, holding it out. "But I can't keep it. I love it," he quickly adds, "but...it's too nice. Tell Harry..." What? What can he say? _I love you, but I can’t do this._ "Tell him I'm sorry. And good-bye." 

The man's still staring at him, analyzing him underneath his glasses, then slowly reaches out. When his hands close around the bundle and takes it, Eggsy tries not to feel the pressure in his chest. He feels as if he's giving part of himself away as well as what he's got of Harry. 

But he has to. Tonight has proven that he's not safe, that Harry's not safe. What if Dean were to track him down and start on Harry, just a tailor, unable to get away from a few muggers unharmed? His stepdad can kill him—maybe he won't when he looks at the posh suit—but Eggsy doesn't know. 

That's a chance he'll never take.

"Thanks," Eggsy says again, then walks away, not looking back, knowing he'll never come by this shop again. 

* * *

 "Well?" Dean demands as soon as he walks through the door, shivering and holding his arms across his chest, bereft of warmth and Harry's gift. 

“Gave it back,” Eggsy says, without so much as a chatter. Strangely, he feels more powerful now. Dean can't prove anything, can't find out where the coat came from, can't use it as leverage against him. 

“You little shit,” Dean snarls, and raises his fist.

Even when he sees it, Eggsy can’t move.

Dean’s going to kill him, he thinks. It’s a strangely calm realization. Dean’s going to kill him. Maybe not today, but one day—

“Oi, Dean!” Poodle’s voice calls, and Eggsy’s never seen happier to hear that sour-noted voice in his life. “Just got a deal.”

Sighing, Dean moves away from Eggsy, jabbing his finger at him before retreating. "Yeah, Poodle?" he calls. "Who is it?" 

Eggsy slinks to his room, closes the door, and allows himself to bury his face in his hands, but doesn't dare to let out a sob.

* * *

It doesn’t take long for Harry to ring him, but Eggsy ignores it.

He ends up blocking the number, then deleting it. 

* * *

Years pass. Daisy slowly, slowly grows from a tiny baby to a toddler who can babble a few words when Dean’s not around. His mum resists cigarettes and alcohol for as long as she can, but once Daisy’s done breast-feeding, that’s it. His piss poor excuse for a stepdad doesn’t step up to provide for his flesh and blood.

 His hope whittles down to nothing.

 It’s only when he’s alone, with the door shut tightly and the room completely dark, that his eyes close and his mind drifts. Eggsy remembers stories from the Marines about how people can feel their missing arm or leg or both after they’ve been blown or cut off. Phantom limbs, they call it, and it’s the perfect feeling. Harry’s his phantom limb.

He can still feel the weight on his arm. The taste on his lips. The tender hands stroking his face, his hair, his exposed flesh.

It’s cruel to keep doing this to himself, but Eggsy can’t stop. It’s a fucking drug.

Ryan and Jamal notice, but Eggsy eludes them, saying it’s Dean’s shit or taking care of Daisy or trying to find another job. He’s sure they know better, but his mates don’t confront him, instead wordlessly offering a round at the Black Prince or taking him out for some pakouring.

Dean doesn’t sure as fuck notice and neither does Daisy. He’s not sure if his mum notices, either, with her mind drifting like the cigarette smoke always in the flat.

Sometimes he wishes someone would, call him out on it, but most of the time, he doesn’t.

And that's fine, really. He can bear the pain.

* * *

It’s just another evening, quiet. They’re almost like a family, eating in front of the telly and not shouting or smoking. Eggsy listlessly pushes the takeaway around the paper plate, making a mental note to start on the dishes, while his mum eats beside him, eyes fixed on the latest celebrity scandal, something involving botched plastic surgery. 

Dean makes some comment about it with a light snicker, as Eggsy and his mum make noncommittal grunts and smiles. A light buzz interrupts his next joke, and Dean brings his phone to his ear, listening to whoever's on the line with rapt attention.  

His face quickly turns ugly. “What? What do you mean?”

His mum bravely asks when Dean hangs up, “What is it?”

“Fucking feds got a runner. The boys’ll have to keep low for a while.”

Eggsy silently continues to eat, knowing what’s coming.

“We need a fresh face, looks like.” Without taking his eyes off the telly, Dean says, “Eggsy, you’re up for tomorrow’s routes.”

“Yeah,” Eggsy says listlessly. “All right.”

 _You’re so much more than you think,_ Harry had said. He’d been looking at Eggsy like he could see past the clothes, the dirt, the bruises. His hand came up and caressed Eggsy’s cheek, fond and sweet. _Potential._

Eggsy’d let his eyes drop, body moving away, mouth opening for some snarky quirk.

Potential. Yeah, right.

* * *

“Oxfords, not brogues,” Eggsy says desperately into the receiver in Holburn’s interrogation room, medal clutched in between his fingers like a lifeline. No one’s really given him anything to eat, his clothes are wrinkled and smell of a holding cell, and he might go to jail for over a year.

“Your complaint has been duly noted, and we hope we haven’t lost you as a valuable customer,” the voice says, then promptly hangs up on him.

He closes his eyes. Fuck. That was his last hope.

“You’re free to go,” the man says.

“What?” Eggsy asks stupidly. “You mean, someone paid bail?”

“All charges have been dropped, and this will not go on your record, nor will you have to appear in court,” the man says, and Eggsy can’t fucking believe it. Rottie wouldn’t let this go, and neither would Dean or the officers whose car he smashed into. “You’re free to go,” he repeats, holding the door open for him. “Collect your things at the front desk.”

As Eggsy walks past him, the man’s muttering something about having friends in high places, and numbly, Eggsy thinks of the medal, the _oxfords not brogues._ They really heard him; they really helped.

He’s still in a daze while stepping out of the police station, blinking away the bright sunlight as he heads out towards the sidewalk, so in his head that he almost misses the man to his left, standing on the stairs as if he’d been waiting for him 

“Eggsy?” The voice is hesitant, but Eggsy knows it. “Would you like a lift home?”


End file.
